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^ TRI WEEKLY PUBLICATION OF THE BEST CURRENT h STANDARD LITERATURE 


VoK 19. No. 917. April 9, 1887. Annual Subscription, $30.00. 

THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE 
MYSTERY 

BY 

CHARLES READE 

Author of “FOUL PLAY,” Etc., Etc. 


Entered at the Post Office, N Y., as second-class matter. 
Copyright, 1884, by John W. Lovell Co. 


: N E W- Y ORK 


+ JOHN-W- Lovell- Coa\pan 

— i ^ r|6 VESEY STR! 


Y + 

E E T 




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Morgan’s’ sons co, 






THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY 


AND 

THE PICTURE 





3R 




V 

CHARLES READE 


AUTHOR OF “FOUL PLAY,” “VERY HARD CASH,” ETC., 


NEW YORK 

JOHN W. LOVELL COMPANY 

14 and 16 Vesey Street 


etc. 


« 


The Knightstridge Mystery 


By CHARLES READE. 


CHAPTER I. 

In Charles the Second’s day the Swan was denounced by 
the dramatists as a house where unfaithful wives and mistresses 
met their gallants. 

But in the next century, when John Clarke was (he Free- 
holder, no special imputation of that sort rested on it; it was a 
country inn with large stables, horsed the Brentford coach, and 
entertained man and beast on journeys long or short. It had 
also permanent visitors, especially in summer; for it was near 
London, and yet a rural retreat; meadows on each side, Hyde 
Park at back, Knightsbridge Green in front. 

Among the permanent lodgers was Mr. Gardiner, a substantial 
man; and Captain Co wen, a retired officer of moderate means, 
had lately taken two rooms for himself and his son. Mr. Gar- 
diner often joined the company in the public room, but the 
Cowens kept to themselves up-stairs. 

This was soon noticed and resented, in that age of few books 
and free converse. Some said, “ Oh, we are not good enough 
for him!” others inquired what a half-pay Captain had to give 
himself airs about. Candor interposed and supplied the climax: 
“ Nay, my masters, the Captain may be in hiding from duns, or 
from the runners; now I think on't, the York mail was robbed 
scarce a sennight before his Worship came a-hiding here.” 

But the landlady’s tongue ran the other way. Her weight 
was sixteen stone, her sentiments were her interests, and her 
tongue her tomahawk. “'Tis pity,” said she, one day, “some 
folk can’t keep their tongues from blackening of their betters. 
The Captain is a civil-spoken gentleman — Lord send there were 
more of them iu these parts! — as takes his hat off to me when- 
ever he meets me, and pays his reckoning weekly. If he has a 
mind to be private, what business is that of mine, or yours? 
But curs must bark at their betters.” 

Detraction, thus roughly quelled for certain seconds, revived 
at intervals whenever Dame Cust’s broad back was turned. It 
was mildly encountered one evening by Gardiner. “ Nay, good 
sirs,” said he, “you mistake the worthy Captain. To have 




THE KNIGHTS BRIDGE MYSTERY. 


fought at Bleuheira aud Malplaquet, no man hath less vanity. 
’Tis for his son he holds aloof. He guards the youth like a mother, 
and will not have him to hear our tap-room jests. He worships 
the boy — a sullen lout, sirs; but paternal love is blind. He told 
me once he had loved his wife dearly, and lost her young, and 
this was all he had of her. ‘And,’ said he, ‘ I’d spill blood like 
water for him, my own the first.’ ‘ Then, sir,’ says I, ‘I fear 
he will give you a sore heart one day.’ ‘ And welcome,’ says 
my Captain, and his face like iron.” 

Somebody remarked that no man keeps out of company who 
is good company; but Mr. Gardiner parried that dogma. When 
young master is abed, my neighbor does sometimes invite me to 
share a bottle: and a sprigbtlier companion I would not desire. 
Such stories of battles, and duels, and love intrigues!” 

“ Now. there’s an old fox for you,” said one, approvingly. It 
reconciled him to the Captain’s decency to find that it was only 
hypocrisy. 

‘ I like not — a man — who wears — a mask,” hiccoughed a 
hitherto silent personage, revealing his clandestine drunkenness 
and unsuspected wisdom atone blow. 

These various theories were still fermenting in the bosom of 
the Swan, when one day there rode to the door a gorgeous 
officer, hot from the minister’s levee, in scarlet and gold, with 
an order like a starfish glittering on his breast. His servant, a 
private soldier, rode behind him, and, slipping hastily from his 
saddle, held his master's horse while he dismounted. Just then 
Captain Cowen came out for his afternoon walk. He started, 
and cried out, “ Colonel Barrington !*’ 

“ Av, brother,” cried the other, and instantly the two officers 
embraced, and even kissed each other, for that feminine custom 
had not yet retired across the Channel; and these were soldiers 
who had fought and bled side by side, and nursed each other in 
turn; and your true soldier does not nurse bv halves; his vigi- 
lance and tenderness are an example to women, and he rustleth 
not. 

Captain Cowen invited Colonel Barrington to his room, and 
that warrior marched down the passage after him, single file, 
with .ong brass spurs and saber clinking at his heels; and the 
establishment ducked and smiled, and respected Captain Cowen 
for the reason we admire the moon. 

Seated in Cowen’s room, the new-comer said, heartily, “ Well, 
Ned, I come not empty-handed. Here is thy pension at last,” 
and handed him a parchment with a seal like* a poached egg. 

Cowen changed color, and thanked him with an emotion he 
rarely betrayed, and gloated over the precious document. His 
cast-iron features relaxed, and he said, “ It comes in the nick of 
time, for now I can send my dear Jack to College.” 

This led somehow to an exposure of his affairs. He had just 
one hundred and ten pounds a year, derived from the sale of his 
commission, winch he had invested, at fifteen per cent., with a 
well-known mercantile house in the City. “ So now,” said he, 
“ I shall divide it all in three; Jack will want two parts to live 
at Oxford, and I can do well enough here on one,” The rest of 


8 


THE KNIGHTSBRWGE MYSTERY . 

the conversation does not matter, so I dismiss it and Colonel 
Barrington for the time. A few days afterward Jack went to 
College, and Captain Cowen reduced his expenses, and dined at 
the shilling ordinary, and indeed took all his moderate repasts 
in public. 


Instead of the severe and reserved character he had worn while' 
his son was with him, he now shone out a boon companion, and 
sometimes kept the table in a roar with his marvelous mimicries 
of all the characters, male or female, that lived in the inn or fre- 
quented it, and sometimes held them breathless with adventures, 
dangers, intrigues, in which a leading part had been played by 
himself or his friends. 

He became quite a popular character, except with one or two 
envious bodies, whom he eclipsed: they revenged themselves by 
saying it was all braggadocio; his battles had been fought over 
a bottle, and by the fireside. 

The district east and west of Knightsbridge had long been in- 
fested with foot-pads; they robbed passengers in the country 
lanes, which then abounded, and sometimes on the King’s high- 
way, from which those lanes offered an easy escape. 

One moonlight night Captain Cowen was returning home alone 
from an entertainment at Fulham, when suddenly the air 
seemed to fill with a woman’s screams and cries. They issued 
from a lane on his right hand. He whipped out his sword, and 
dashed down the lane. It took a sudden turn, and in a moment 
he came upon three foot-pads, robbing and maltreating an old 
gentleman and his wife. The old man’s sword lay ata distance, 
struck from his feeble hand; the woman’s tongue proved the 
better weapon, for at least it brought an ally. 

The nearest robber, seeing the Captain" come at him with 
drawn sword glittering in the moonshine, fired hastily, and 
grazed his cheek, and was skewered like a frog the|next moment; 
his cry of agony mingled with two shouts of dismay, and the 
other foot- pads fled; but, even as they turned, Captain Cowen’s 
nimble blade entered the shoulder of one, and pierced the fleshy 
part. He escaped, however, but howling and bleeding. 

Captain Cowen handed over the lady and gentleman to the 
people who flocked to the place, now the work was done, and the 
disabled robber to the guardians of the public peace, who arrived 
last of all. He himself withdrew apart and wiped his sword 
very carefully and minutely with a white pocket-handkerchief, 
and then retired. 

He was so far from parading his exploit that he went round 
by the park and let himself into the Swan with bis private key, 
and was going quietly to bed, when the chambermaid met him, 
and up flew her arms, with cries of dismay. “ Oh, Captain! 
Captain! Look at you — smothered in blood! I shall faint.” 

“ TTjsh! Silly wench!” said Captain Cowen. “ I am not hurt,” 

“ Not hurt, sir ? And bleeding like a pig! Your cheek— your 
poor cheek!” 

Captain Cowen put up his hand, and found that blood was 
really welling from his cheek and ear. 

He looked grave for a moment, then assured her it was but a 


4 


THE KNIGHTS B RIDG E MYSTERY. 


scratch, and offered to convince her of that. “ Bring me some 
lukewarm water and thou shalt be my doctor. But, Barbara, 
prithee publish it not.” 

Next morning an officer of justice inquired after him at the 
Swan, and demanded his attendance at Bow Street, at two that 
afternoon, to give evidence against the foot-pads. This was 
the very thing he wished to avoid; but there was no evading the 
summons. 

The officer was invited into the bar by the landlady, and saug 
the gallant captain’s exploit with his own variations. The inn 
began to ring with Co wen’s praises. Indeed, there was now but 
one detractor left— the hostler, Daniel Cox, a drunken fellow 
of sinister aspect, who had for some time stared and lowered at 
Captain Cowen, and muttered mysterious things, doubts as to 
his being a real Captain, etc., etc. Which incoherent murmurs of 
a muddle-headed drunkard were not treated as oracular by any 
human creature, though the stable-boy once went so far as to 
say, “ I sometimes almost thinks as how our Dan do know sum- 
mit; only he don’t rightly know what ’tis, along o’ being always 
muddled in liquor.” 

Cowen, who seemed to notice little, but noticed everything, 
had observed the lowering looks of this fellow, and felt "lie had 
an enemy: it even made him a little uneasy, though he was too 
proud and self-possessed to show it. 

With this exception, then, everybody greeted him with hearty 
compliments, and he was cheered out of the inn, marching to 
Bow Street. 

Daniel Cox, who — as accidents will happen — was sober that 
morning, saw him out, and then put on his own coat. 

“ Take thou charge of the stable, Sam,” said he. 

“Why, where be’st going at this time o’ day ?” 

“ I be going to Bow Street,” said Daniel, doggedly. 

At Bow Street Captain Cowen was received with great respect, 
and a seat given him by the sitting magistrate while some 
minor cases were disposed of. 

In due course the highway robbery was called and proved by 
the parties who, unluckily for the accused, had been actually 
robbed before Cowen interfered. 

Then the oath was tendered to Cowen: he stood up by the 
magistrate’s side and deposed, with military brevity and exact- 
ness, to the facts I have related, but refused to swear to the iden- 
tity of the individual culprit, w ho stood pale and trembling at 
the dock. 

The Attorney for the Crown, after pressing in vain, said, 
“Quite right, Captain Cowmen; a witness cannot be too scrupu- 
lous.” 

He then called an officer who had found the robber leaning 
against a railing fainting from loss of blood, scarce a furlong 
from the scene of the robbery, and wounded in the shoulder! 
That let in Captain Cowen’s evidence, and the culprit was com- 
mitted for trial, and soon after peached upon his only comrade 
at large. The other lay in the hospital at Newgate. 

The magistrate complimented Captain Cowen on his conduct 


THE K NIG 11 TS BRIDGE MYSTERY. 


5 


and his evidence, and he went away universally admired. Yet 
he was not elated, nor indeed content. Sitting by the magis- 
trate’s side, after he had given his evidence, he happened to look 
all round the Court, and in a distant corner he saw the enor- 
mous mottled nose and sinister eyes of Daniel Cox glaring at him 
with a strange but puzzled expression. 

Cowen had learned to read faces, and he said to himself, 
“ What is there in that ruffian’s mind about me? Did he know 
me years ago ? I cannot remember him. Curse the beast— one 
would almost — think — he is cudgeling his drunken memory. I’ll 
keep an eye on you.” 

He went home thoughtful and discomposed, because this drunk- 
ard glowered at him so. The reception he met with at the Swan 
effaced the impression. He was received with acclamations, 
and now that publicity was forced on him, he accepted it, and 
reveled in popularity. 

About this time he received a letter from his son, inclosing a 
notice from the College tutor, speaking highly of his ability, good 
conduct, devotion to study. 

This made the father swell with loving pride. 

Jack hinted modestly that there were unavoidable expenses, 
and his funds were dwindling. He inclosed an account that 
showed how the money went. 

The father wrote back and bade him be easy; he should have 
every farthing required, and speedily, “ For, : ’ said he, “ my half- 
years interest is due now.” 

Two days after he had a letter from his man of business beg- 
ging him to call. He went with alacrity, making sure his 
money was waiting for him as usual. 

His lawyer received him very gravely, and begged him to be 
seated. He then broke to him some appalling news. The great 
house of Brown. Molyneux & Co. had suspended payment at 
noon the day before, and were not expected to pay a shilling in 
the pound. Captain Cowen’s little fortune was gone, all but his 
pension of £80 a year. 

He sat like a man turned to stone. Then he clasped his hands 
with agony, and uttered two words, no more — “ My son!” 

He rose and left the place like one in a dream. He got down 
to Knightsbridge, he hardly knew how. At the very door of 
the inn he fell down in a fit. The people of the inn were round 
him in a moment, and restoratives freely supplied. His sturdy 
nature soon revived, but, with the moral and physical shock, 
his lips were slightly distorted over his clinched teeth. His face, 
too, was ashy pale. 

When he came to himself the first face he noticed was that of 
Daniel Cox, eying him, not with pity, but with'puzzled cu- 
riosity. Cowen shuddered, and closed his own eyes to avoid this 
blighting glare. Then, without opening them, he muttered, 
“ What lias befallen me? I feel no wound.” 

“Laws forbid, sir,” said the landlady, leaning over him. 
“Your honor did but swoon for once, to show you was born of 
a woman, and not made of naught but steel. Here, you gaping 


6 


THE KN1GH TS BRIDGE MYSTERY . 


loons and sluts, help the Captain to his room amongst ye, and 
then go about your business.” 

This order was promptly executed, so far as assisting Captain 
Cowen to rise; but he was no sooner on his feet than he waved 
them all from him haughtily, and said, “Let me be. It is the 
mind; it is the mind;” and lie smote his forehead in despair, for 
now it all came back on him. 

Then he rushed into the inn and locked himself into his room. 
Female curiosity buzzed about the doors, but was not admitted 
until he had recovered his fortitude and formed a bitter resolu- 
tion to defend himself and his son against all mankind. 

At last there came a timid tap, and a mellow voice said, “It 
is only me, Captain. Prithee let me in.” 

He opened to her, and there was Barbara with k large tray and 
a snow-white cloth. She spread a table deftly, and uncovered a 
roast capon, and uncorked a bottle of white port, talking all the 
time. “ The mistress says you must eat a bit and drink this good 
wine for her sake. Indeed, sir, ’twill do you good after your 
swoon.” With many such encouraging words she got him to sit 
down and eat, and then filled his glass and put it to his lips. He 
could not eat much, but he drank the white port — a wine much 
prized, and purer than the purple vintage of our day. 

At last came Barbara’s post-diet. “But, alack! to think of 
your fainting dead away! Oh, Captain, what is the trouble?” 

The tear was in Barbara’s eye, though she was the emissary of 
Dame Cust’s curiosity, and all curiosity herself. 

Captain Cowen, who had been expecting this question for some 
time, replied, doggedly, “ I have lost the best friend I had in the' 
world.” 

“Dear heart!” said Barbara, and a big tear of sympathy that 
had been gathering ever since she entered the room, rolled down 
her cheeks. 

She put up a corner of her apron to her eyes. “ Alas, poor 
soul!” said she. “Ay, I do know how hard it is to love and 
lose; but bethink you, sir, ’tis the lot of man. Our own turn 
must come. And you have your son left to thank God for, and 
a warm friend or two in this place, thof they be but humble.” 

“ Ay, good wench,” said the soldier, his iron nature touched 
for a moment by her goodness and simplicity, “and none I 
value more than thee. But leave me aw hile.” 

The young woman’s honest cheeks reddened at the praise of 
such a man. “Your will’s my pleasure, sir,” said she, and re- 
tired, leaving the capon and the wine. 

Any little compunction he might have at refusing his confi- 
dence to this humble friend did not trouble him long. He 
looked on women as leaky vessels; and he had firmly resolved 
not to make his situation w^orse by telling the base world that 
he was poor. Many a hard rub had put a fine point on this man 
of steel. 

He glozed the matter, too, in his own mind. “I told her no 
lie. I have lost my best friend, for I’ve lost my money.” 

From that day Captain Cow en visited the tap-room no more, 
and. indeed, seldom went out by daylight. He was all alone 


THE KNIGHTS BRIDGE MYSTERY. 


7 

now, for Mr. Gardiner was gone to Wiltshire to collect his rents. 
In his solitary chamber Cowen ruminated bis loss and the vil- 
lainy of mankind, and his busy brain resolved scheme after 
scheme to repair the impending ruin of his son’s prospects. It 
was there the iron entered his soul. The example of the very 
foot-pads he had baffled occurred to him in his more desperate 
moments; but he fought the temptation down, and in due 
course one of them was transported, and one hung; the other 
languished in Newgate. 

By and by he began to be mysteriously busy, and the door 
always locked. No clew was ever found to his labors but bits 
of melted wax in the fender and a tuft or two of gray hair, and 
it was never discovered in Knightsbridge that he often begged 
in the City at dusk, in a disguise so perfect that a frequenter of 
the Swan once gave him a groat. Thus did he levy his tax upon 
the stony place that had undone him. 

Instead of taking his afternoon walk as heretofore, he would 
sit disconsolate on the seat of a staircase window that looked 
into the yard, and so take the air and sun; and it was owing to 
this new habit lie overheard, one day, a dialogue, in which the 
foggy voice of the hostler predominated at first. He was run- 
ning down Captain Cowen to a pot-boy. The pot-boy stood up 
for him. That annoyed Cox. He spoke louder and louder the 
more he was opposed, till at last he bawled out: “I tell ye I’ve 
seen him a-sitting by the judge, and I’ve seen him in the dock.” 

At these words Captain Cowen recoiled, though he was 
already out of sight, and his eyes glittered like a basilisk’s. 

But immediately a new voice broke upon the scene, a woman’s. 
“ Thou foul-mouthed knave. Is it for thee to slander men of 
worship, and give the inn a bad name? Remember, I have but 
to lift my finger to hang thee, so drive me not to’t. Begone to 
thy horses this moment; thou art not fit to be among Christians. 
Begone, I say, or it shall be the worse for thee;” and she drove 
him across the yard, and followed him up with a torrent of in- 
vectives eloquent even at a distance, though the words were no 
longer distinct: and who should this be but the house-maid Bar- 
bara Lamb, so gentle, mellow, and melodious before the gentle- 
folk, and especially her hero, Captain Cowen! 

As for Daniel Cox, he cowered, writhed, and wriggled away 
before her, and slipped into the stable. 

Captain Cowen was now soured by trouble, and this persistent 
enmity of that fellow roused at last a fixed and deadly hatred in 
his mind, all the more intense that fear mingled with it. 

He sounded Barbara; asked her what nonsense that ruffian 
had been talking, and what he had done that she could hang 
him for. But Barbara would not say a malicious word against 
a fellow-servant in cold blood. “ I can keep a secret,” said she. 
“ If he keeps his tongue off you, I’ll keep mine.” 

“ So be it,” said Cowen. “ Then I warn you I am sick of his 
insolence; and drunkards must be taught not to make enemies 
of sober men nor fools of wise men.” He said this so bitterly 
that, to soothe him, she begged him not to trouble about the 


8 THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 

ravings of a sot. “Dear heart,” said she, “nobody heeds Dan 
Cox.” 

Some days afterward she told him that Dan had been drinking 
harder than ever, and wouldn’t trouble honest folk long, for he 
had the delusions that go before a drunkard’s end; why, he had 
told the stable-boy he had seen a vision of himself climb over 
the garden wall, and enter the house by the back door. “ The 
poor wretch says he knew himself by his bottle nose and his 
cowskin waistcoat, and, to be sure, there is no such nose in the 
parish — thank Heaven for’t! — and not many such waistcoats.” 
She laughed heartily, but Cowen’s lip curled in a venomous 
sneer. He said: “ More likely ’twas the knave himself. Look 
to your spoons, if such a face as that walks by night.” Barbara 
turned grave directly. He eyed her askant, and saw the ran- 
dom shot had gone home. 

Captain Cowen now often slept in the city, alleging business. 

Mr. Gardiner wrote from Salisbury, ordering bis room to be 
ready and his sheets well aired. 

One afternoon he returned with a bag and a small valise, pro- 
digiously heavy. He had a fire lighted, though it was a fine 
autumn, for he was chilled with his journey, and invited Cap 
tain Cowen to sup with him. The latter consented, but begged 
it might be an early supper, as he must sleep in the City. 

“ I am sorry for that,” said Gardiner. “ I have a hundred and 
eighty guineas there in that bag, and a man could get into my 
room from yours.” 

“ Not if you lock the middle door,” said Cowen. “ But I can 
leave you the key of my outer door, for that matter.” 

This offer was" accepted; but still Mr. Gardiner felt uneasy. 
There had been several robberies at inns, and it was a rainy, 
gusty night. He was depressed and ill at ease. Then Captain 
Cowen offered him his pistols, and helped him load them, two 
bullets in each. He also went and fetched him a bottle of the 
best port, and after drinking one glass with him, hurried aw T ay, 
and left his key with him for further security. 

Mr. Gardiner, left to himself, made up a great fire and drank 
a glass or two of the wine; it seemed remarkably heady, and 
raised his spirits. After all, it was only for one night: to mor- 
row he would deposit his gold in the bank. He began to un- 
pack his things, and put his night-dress to the fire. But by 
and by he felt so drowsy that he did but take his coat off, put 
his pistols under the pillow, and lay down on the bed, and fell 
fast asleep. 

* * * * ¥■ * * 

That night Barbara Lamb awoke twice, thinking each time 
she heard doors open and shut on the floor below her. 

But it was a gusty night, and she concluded it was most like- 
ly the wind. Still a residue of uneasiness made her rise at five 
instead of six, and she lighted her tinder, and came down with 
a rush-light. She found Captain Cow-en’s door wide open. It 
had been locked wdien she went to bed. That alarmed her 
greatly. She looked in. A glance was enough. She cried, 


THE KNIGHTSB RIDGE MYSTERY. 9 

“Thieves! thieves!” and in a moment uttered scream upon 
scream. 

Tn an incredibly short time pale and eager faces of men and 
women filled the passage. 

Cowen’sroom, being open, was entered first. On the floor lay, 
what Barbara had seen at a glance, his portmanteau, rifled, 
and the clothes scattered about. The door of communication 
was ajar; they opened it, and an appalling sight met their eyes: 
Mr. Gardiner was lying in a pool of blood, and moaning feebly. 
There was little hope of saving him. No human body could 
long survive such a loss of the vital fluid. But it so happened 
there was a country surgeon in the house; he stanched the 
wounds — there were three— and somebody or other had the good 
sense to beg the victim to make a statement. He was unable at 
first; but, under powerful stimulants, revived at last, and showed 
a strong wish to aid justice in avenging him. By this time they 
had got a magistrate to attend, and he put his ear to the dying 
man’s lips; but others heard, so hushed was the room and so keen 
the awe and curiosity of each panting heart. 

“I had gold in my portmanteau, and was afraid. I drank a 
bottle of wine with Captain Cowen, and he left me. He lent me 
his key and his pistols. I locked both doors. I felt very sleepy, 
and lay down. When I woke, a man was leaning over my port- 
manteau. His back was toward me. I took a pistol, and aimed 
steadily. It missed fire. The man turned and sprung on me. I 
had caught up a knife — one we had for supper. I stabbed him 
with all my force. He wrested it from me, and I felt piercing 
blows. I am slain. Ay, I am slain.” 

“ But the man, sir. Did you not see his face at all?” 

“ Not till he fell on me. ‘But then very plainly. The moon 
shone.” 

“Pray describe him.” 

“ Broken hat.” 

“ Yes.” 

“ Hairy waistcoat.” 

“Yes.” 

“ Enormous nose.” 

“ Do you know him ?” 

“ Ay — the hostler, Cox.” 

There was a groan of horror and a cry for vengeance. 

“Silence,” said the magistrate. “Mr. Gardiner, you are a 
dying man. Words may kill. Be careful. Have you any 
doubts?” 

“ AJbout what?” 

“ That the villain was Daniel Cox.” 

“ None whatever.” 

At these words the men and women, who were glaring with 
pale faces and all their senses strained at the dying man and his 
faint, yet terrible, denunciation, broke into two bands; some re- 
mained rooted to the place, the rest hurried, with cries of venge- 
ance, in search of Daniel Cox. They were met in the yard by 
two constables, and rushed fust to the stables, not that they hoped 
to find him there. Of course he had absconded with his booty. 


10 


THE KNIGHTS BRIDGE MYSTERY. 


The stable door was ajar. They tore it open. 

The gray dawn revealed Cox fast asleep on the straw in the 
first empty stall, and his bottle iu the manger. His clothes were 
bloody, and the man was drunk. They pulled him, cursed him, 
struck him, and would have torn him in pieces, but the consta- 
bles interfered, set him up against the rail, like timber, and 
searched his bosom, and found— a wound; then turned all his 
pockets inside out, amidst great expectation, and found — three 
halfpence and the key of the stable door. 


CHAPTER II. 

They ransacked the straw and all the premises, and found- 
nothing. 

Then, to make him sober and get something out of him, the; 
pumped upon his head till he was very nearly choked. How> 
ever, it told on him. He gasped for breath awhile, and rolled 
his eyes, and then coolly asked them had they found the villain. 

They shook their fists at him. “ Ay, we have found the vil- 
lain. red handed.” 

“I mean him as prowls about these parts in my waistcoat, 
and drove his knife into me last night — wonder a didn’t kill me 
out of hand. Have ye found him amongst ye?” 

This question met with a volley of jeers and execrations, and 
the constables pinioned him, and bundled him off in a cart to 
Row Street, to wait examination. 

Meantime, two Bow Street runners came down with a war- 
rant, and made a careful examination of the premises. The 
two keys were on the table. Mr. Gardiner’s outer door was 
locked. There was no money either in his portmanteau or Cap- 
tain Co wen’s. Both pistols were found loaded, but no priming 
in the pan of the one that lay on the bed; the other was primed, 
but the bullets were above the powder. 

Bradbury, one of the runners, took particular notice of all. 

Outside, blood was traced from the stable to the garden wall, 
and under this wall, in the grass, a bloody knife was found be- 
longing to the Swan Inn. There was one knife less in Mr. 
Gardiner's room than had been carried up to his supper. 

Mr. Gardiner lingered till noon, but never spoke again. 

The news spread swiftly, and Captain Cowen came home in 
the afternoon, very pale and shocked. 

He had heard of a robbery and murder at the Swan, and 
came to know more. The landlady told him all that had trans- 
pired. and that the villain Cox was in prison. 

Cowen listened thoughtfully, and said, “Cox! No doubt he is 
a knave; but murder!— I should never have suspected him of 
that.” 

The landlady pooh-poohed his doubts. “Why, sir. the poor 
gentleman knew him, and wounded him in self-defense, and the 
rogue was found a-bleeding from that very wound, and my knife 
as done the murder, not a stone’s-throw from him as done it, 
which it was that Dan Cox, and he’ll swing for’t, please God " 


THE KNIGHTS BRIDGE MYSTRRY. 


It 


Then, changing her tone, she said, solemnly, “ You’ll come and 
see him, sir ?” 

“ Yes,” said Cowen, resolutely, with scarce a moment’s hesi- 
tation. 

The landlady led the way, and took the keys out of her pocket 
and opened Cowen’s door. “We keep all locked,” said she half 
apologetically; “ the magistrate bade us; and everything as we 
found it— God help us! There — look at your portmanteau. I 
wish you may not have been robbed as well.” 

“ No matter,” said he. 

“ But it matters to me,” said she, “ for the credit of the house.” 
Then she gave him ti e key of the inner door, and waved her 
hand toward it, and sat down and began to cry. 

Cowen went in and taw the appalling sight. He returned 
quickly, looking like a ghost, and muttered, “This is a terrible 
business.” 

“ It is a bad business for me and all,” said she. “He have 
robbed you. too, 111 go bail.” 

Captain Cowen examined his trunk carefully, “ Nothing to 
speak of,” said he. “I’ve lost eight guineas and my gold 
watch.” 

“There! there! there!” cried the landlady. 

“ What does that matter, dame ? He has lost his life.” 

“ Ay, poor soul. But ’t won’t bring him back, you being 
robbed and all. Was ever such aD unfortunate woman ? Mur- 
der and robbery in my house! Travelers will shun it like a pest- 
house. And the new landlord he only wanted a good excuse to 
take it down altogether.” 

This was followed by more sobbing and crying. Cowen took 
her down-stairs into the bar and comforted her. They had a 
glass of spirits together, and he encouraged the flow of her 
egotism, till at last she fully persuaded herself it was her 
calamity that one man was robbed and another murdered in her 
house. 

Cowen, always a favorite, quite won her heart by falling into 
this view of the matter, and when he told her he must go back 
to the City again, for he had important business, and besides had 
no money left either in his pockets or in his rifled valise, she 
encouraged him to go. and said, kindly, indeed it was no place 
for him now; it was very good of him to come back at all: but 
both apartments should be scoured and made decent in a very 
few days and a new carpet down in Mr. Gardiner’s room. 

So Coweu went back to the City, and left this notable woman 
to mop up her murder. 

* # * * * * * 

At Bow Street next morning, in answer to the evidence of his 
guilt, Cox told a tale which the magistrate said was even more 
ridiculous than most of the stories uneducated criminals get up 
on such occasions; with this single comment he committed Cox 
for trial. 

Everybody was of the magistrate’s opinion, except a single 
Bow Street runner, the same who had already examined the 
premises. This man suspected Cox, but had one qualm of doubt. 


12 


THE KNIGHTSB RIDGE MYSTERY. 


founded on the place where he had discovered the knife, and the 
circumstance of the blood being traced from that place to the 
stable, and not from the inn to the stable, and on a remark Cox 
had made to him in the cart. “I don’t belong to the house. I 
haan’t got no keys to go in and out o’ nights. And if I took a 
hatful of gold, I’d be off with it into another country— wouldn’t 
you? Him as took the gentleman's money, he knew where 
’twas, and he have got it: I didn’t, and I haan’t.” 

Bradbury came down to the Swan, and asked the landlady 
a question or two; she gave him short answers. He then told 
her that he wished to examine the wine that had come down 
from Mr. Gardiner’s room. 

The landlady looked him in the face, and said it had been 
drunk by the servants, or thrown away long ago. 

“ I have my doubts of that,” said he. 

“And welcome,” said she. 

Then he wished to examine the key-holes. “ No,” said she. 
“ There has been prying enough into my house.” 

Said he, angrily, “You are obstructing justice. It is very sus- 
picious.” 

“ It is you that is suspicious, and a mischief-maker into the bar- 
gain,” said she. “ How do I know what you might put into 
my wine and my key- holes, and say you "found it? You are 
well known, you Bow Street runners, for your hanky-panky 
tricks. Have you got a search-warrant to throw more discredit 
upon my house? No? Then pack, and learn the law before you 
teach it me.” 

Bradbury retired, bitterly indignant, and his indignation 
strengthened his faint doubt of Cox’s guilt. 

He set a friend to watch the Swan, and he himself gave 
his mind to the whole case, and visited Cox in Newgate three 
times before his trial. 

The next novelty was that legal assistance was provided for 
Cox by a person who expressed compassion for his poverty and 
inability to defend himself, guilty or not guilty; and that be- 
nevolent person was — Captain Cowen. 

In due course Daniel Cox was arraigned at the bar of the Old 
Bailey for robbery and murder. 

The deposition of the murdered man was put in by the Crown, 
r.nd the witnesses sworn who heard it, and Captain Cowen was 
called to support a portion of it. He swore that he supped with 
the deceased, and loaded one pistol for him while Mr. Gardiner 
loaded the other; lent him the key of his own door for further 
security, and himself slept in the City. 

The judge asked him where, and he said, “ 13 Farringdon 
Street. ” 

It was elicited from him that he had provided counsel for the 
prisoner. 

His evidence was very short, and to the point. It did not di- 
rectly touch the accused, and the defendant’s counsel, in spite 
of his client’s eager desire, declined to cross-examine Captain 
Cowen. He thought a hostile examination of so respectable a 


THE KNIGHTSB RIDGE MYSTERY. 


13 


witness, who brought nothing home to the accused, would- only 
raise more indignation against his client. 

The prosecution was strengthened by the reluctant evidence 
of Barbara Lamb. She deposed that three years ago Cox had 
been detected by her stealing money from a gentleman’s table 
in the Swan Inn, and she gave the details 

The judge asked her whether this was at night. 

“No, my Lord; at about four of the clock. He is never in 
the house at night. The mistress can’t abide him.” 

“ Has he any key of the house ?” 

“ Oh dear no, my Lord.” 

The rest of the evidence for the Crown is virtually before the 
reader. 

For the defense it was proved that the man was found drunk, 
with no money nor keys upon him, and that the knife was found 
under the wall, and the blood was traceable from the wall to the 
stable. Bradbury, who proved this, tried to get in about the 
wine, but this was stopped as irrelevant. “There is only one 
person under suspicion,” said the judge, rather sternly. 

As counsel were not allowed in that day to make speeches to 
the jury, but only to examine and cross-examine, and discuss 
points of law, Daniel Cox had to speak on his own defense. 

“ My Lord.” said he, “ it was my double done it.” 

“Your what?” asked my Lord, a little peevishly. 

“ My double. There’s a rogue prowls about the Swan at 
nights, which you couldn’t tell him from me. (Laughter.) You 
needn’t to laugh me to the gallows. 1 tell ye he have got a nose 
like mine.” (Laughter.) 

Clerk of Arraigns. “ Keep silence in the court, on pain of 
imprisonment.” 

“ And he have got a waistcoat the very spit of mine, and a 
tumble-down hat such as I do wear. 1 saw him go by and let 
hisself into the Swan with a key, and I told Sam Pott next 
morning.” 

Judge. “ Who is Sam Pott?” 

Culprit. “ Why, my stable-boy, to be sure.” 

Judge. “ Is he in court ?” 

Culprit. “ I don’t know. Ay, there he is.” 

Judge. “ Then you’d better call him.” 

Culprit (shouting). — “ Hy, Sam!” 

Sam. “Here be I.” (Loud laughter.) 

The judge explained, calmly, that to call a witness meant to 
put him in the box and swear him, and that although it was ir- 
regular, yet he should allow Pott to be sworn, if it would do the 
prisoner any good. 

Prisoner’s counsel said he had no wish to swear Mr. Pott. 

“ Well, Mr. Gurney,” said the judge, “ I don’t think he can do 
you any harm.” Meaning in so desperate a case. 

Thereupon Sam Pott was sworn, and deposed that Cox had 
told him about this double. 

“When?” 

“ Often and often.” 

“ Before the murder?” 


u 


THE KNIGHTS BRIDGE MYSTERY. 


“ Lons: afore that.” 

Counsel for the Crown. “ Did you ever see this double Y 

“ Not I.” 

Counsel. “I thought not.” 

Daniel Cox went on to say that on the night of the murder he 
was up with a sick horse, and he saw his double let himself out 
of the inn the back way, and then turn round and close the door 
softly, so r a slipped out to meet him. But the double saw him, 
and made for the garden wall. He ran up and caught him with 
one leg over the wall, and seized a black bag he was carrying 
off: the figure dropped it. and he heard a lot of money chink; 
that thereupon he cried “ Thieves!” and seized the man; but im- 
mediately received a blow, and lost his senses for a time. When 
he came to, the man and the bag were both gone, and he felt so 
sick that he staggered to the stable and drank a pint of neat 
brandy, and he remembered no more till they pumped on him, 
and told him he had robbed and murdered a gentleman inside 
the Swan Inn. “ What they can’t tell me,” said Daniel, be- 
ginning to shout, “is how I could know who has got money and 
who haan’t inside the Swan Inn. I keeps the stables, not the 
inn; and where be my keys to open and shut the Swan? I 
never had none. And where's the gentleman’s money ? ’Twas 
somebody in the inn as done it, for to have the money, and 
when you find the money you’ll find the man.” 

The prosecuting counsel ridiculed this defense, and inter alia 
asked the iury whether they thought it was a double the wit- 
ness Lamb haa caught robbing in the inn three years ago. 

The judge summed up very closely, giving the evidence of 
every witness. What follows is a mere synopsis of his charge. 

He showed it was beyond doubt that Mr. Gardiner returned to 
the inn with money, having collected his rents in Wiltshire, and 
this was known in the inn, and proved by several, and might 
have transpired in the yard or the tap-room. The unfortunate 
gentleman took Captain Cowen, a respectable person, his neigh- 
bor in the inn, into his confidence, and revealed his uneasiness. 
Captain Cowen swore that he supped with him, but could not 
stay all night, most unfortunately. But he encouraged him, 
left him his pistols, and helped him load them. 

Then his Lordship read the dying man’s deposition. 

The person thus solemnly denounced was found in the stable, 
bleeding from a recent wound, which seems to connect him at 
once with the deed as described by the dying man. 

“ But here,” said my Lord, “ the chain is no longer perfect. A 
knife, taken from the Swan, was found under the garden wall, 
and the first traces of blood commenced there, and continued to 
the stable, and were abundant on the straw and on the person of 
the accused. This was proved by the constable and others. No 
money was found on him, and no keys that could have opened 
any outer doors of the Swan Inn. The accused had, however, 
three years before been guilty of a theft from a gentleman in 
the inn, which negatives his pretense that he always confines 
himself to the stables. It did not, however, appear that, on the 
occasion of the theft, he had unlocked any doors or possessed 


15 


THE KNIGHTSB RIDGE MYSTERY. 

the means. The witness for the Crown, Barbara Lamb, was 
clear on that. 

“ The prisoner’s own solution of the mystery was not very 
credible. He said he had a double, or a person wearing his 
clothes and appearauce; and he had s^en this person prowling 
about long before the murder, and had spoken of the double to 
one Pott. Pott deposed that Cox had spoken of this double more 
than once; but admitted he never saw the double with his own 
eyes. 

“ This double, says the accused, on the fatal night let himself 
out of the Swan Inn, and escaped to the garden wall. There 
he (Cox) came up with this mysterious person, and a scuffle en- 
sued, in which a bag was dropped, and gave the sound of coin, 
and then Cox held the man and cried ‘Thieves!’ but presently 
received a wound and fr 'nted, and, on recovering himself, stag- 
gered to the stables and drains a pint of brandy. 

The story sounds ridiculous, and there is no direct evidence 
to back it. But there is a circumstance that lends some color 
to it. There was one blood-stained instrument, and no more, 
found on the premises, and that kuife answers the description 
given by the dying man, and indeed may be taken to be the very 
knife missing from his room, and this knife was found under 
the garden wall, and there the blood commenced, and was traced 
to the stable. 

“ Here,” said my Lord, “to my mind, lies the defense. Look 
at the case on all sides, gentlemen: an undoubted murder done 
by hands; no suspicion resting on any known person but the 
prisoner, a man who had already robbed in the inn; a confident 
recognition by one whose deposition is legal evidence, but evi- 
dence we cannot cross-examine, and a recognition by moonlight 
only and in the heat of a struggle. 

“ If on this evidence, weakened not a little by the position of 
the knife and the traces of blood, and met by the prisoner's dec- 
laration which accords with that single branch of the evidence, 
you have a doubt, it is your duty to give the prisoner the full 
benefit of that doubt, as I have endeavored to do; and if you 
have no doubt, why, then you have ouly to support the law, 
and protect the lives of peaceful citizens. Whoever has com- 
mitted this crime, it certainly is an alarming circumstance that, 
in a public inn, surrounded by honest people, guarded by locked 
doors, and armed with pistols, a peaceful citizen can be robbed 
like this of his money and his life.” 

The jury saw a murder at an inn; an accused who had already 
robbed in that inn, and was denounoed as his murderer by the 
victim. The verdict seemed to them to be Cox, or impunity. 
They all slept at inns. A double they had never seen; unde- 
tected accomplices they had all heard of. They waited twenty 
minutes, and brought in their verdict — Guilty. 

The judge put on his black cap and condemned Daniel Cox to 
be hanged by the neck till he was dead. 


16 


THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 


CHAPTER III. 

After the trial was over, and the condemned man led back 
to prison to await his execution, Bradbury went straight to 13 
Farringdon Street, and inquired for Captain Cowen. 

“ No such name here,” said the good woman of the house. 

“ But you keep lodgers ?” 

Nay,* we keep but one, and he is no Captain, he is a City 
clerk.” 

“ Well, madam, it is not idle curiosity, I assure you; but was 
not the lodger before him Captain Cowen ?” 

“ Laws, no. It was a parson. Your rakehelly captains wouldn’t 
suit the like of us. ’Twas a reverend clerk; a grave old gentle- 
man. He wasn’t very well to do, I think; his cassock was worn; 
but be paid his way.” 

“ Keep late hours ?” 

“ Not when he was in town; but he had a country cure.” 

“ Then you have let him in after midnight?” 

“ Nay, I keep no such hours. I lent him a pass-key. He came 
in and out from the country when he chose. I would have you 
to know he was an old man, and a sober man, and an honest 
man; I’d wager my life on that. And excuse me, sir, but who 
be you, that do catechise me so about my lodgers ?” 

“ I am an officer, madam.” 

The simple woman turned pale and clasped her hands. “ An 
officer!” she cried. “ Alack! what have I done now ?” 

“ Why, nothing, madam,” said the wily Bradbury. “An offi- 
cer’s business is to protect such as you, not to trouble you, for 
all the world. There, now, I'll tell you where the shoe pinches. 
This Captain Cowen has just sworn in a court of justice that he 
slept here on the 15tli of last October.” 

“ He never did, then. Our good parson had no acquaintances 
in the town. Not a soul ever visited him.” 

“ Mother,” said a young girl, peeping in, “I think he knew 
somebody of that very name. He did ask me once to post a let- 
ter for him, and it was to some man of worship, and the name 
was Cowen, yes — Cowen ’twas. I’m sure of it By the same 
token, he never gave me another letter, and that made me pay 
the more attention.” 

“ Jane, you are too curious,” said the mother. 

“And lam very much obliged to you, my little maid,” said 
the officer, “ and also to you, madam,” and so took his leave. 
******* 

One evening all of a sudden, Captain Cowen ordered a prime 
horse at the Swan, strapped his valise on before him, and rode 
out of the yard post-haste; he went without drawing bridle to 
Clapham, and tnen looked round him, and, seeing no other 
horseman near, trotted gently round into the Borough, then into 
the City, and slept at an inn in Holborn. He had bespoken a 
particular room beforehand, a little room he frequented. He 
entered it with an air of anxiety. But this soon vanished after 
he had examined the floor carefully. His horse was ordered at 
five o’clock next morning. He took a glass of strong waters at 


THE KNIGHT8BRID0E MYSTERY. 


17 


the door to fortify his stomach, but breakfasted at Uxbridge and 
fed his good horse. He dined at Beaconsfield, baited at Thame, 
and supped with his son at Oxford; next day paid all the young 
man’s debts, and spent a week with him. 

His conduct was strange; boisterously gay and sullenly de- 
spondent by turns. During the week came an unexpected visitor, 
General Sir Robert Barrington. This officer was going out to 
America to fill au important office. He had something in view 
for young Cowen, and came to judge quietly of his capacity. 
But he did not say anything at that time, tor fear of exciting 
hopes he might possibly disappoint. 

However, he was much taken with the young man. Oxford 
had polished him. His modest reticence, until invited to speak, 
recommended him to older men, especially as his answers were 
judicious, when invited to give his opinion. The tutors, also, 
spoke very highly of him. 

“You may well love that boy,” said General Barrington to 
the father. 

“God bless you for praising him!” said the other. “Ay, I 
love him too well.” 

Soon after the General left Cowen changed some gold for 
notes and took his departure for London, having first sent word 
of his return. He meant to start after breakfast anu make one 
day of it; but he lingered with his son, and did not cross Mag- 
dalen Bridge till one o’clock. 

This time he rode through Dorchester, Benson, and Henley, 
and as it grew dark, resolved to sleep at Maidenhead. 

Just after Hurley Bottom, at four cross-roads, three hiehway- 
men spurred on him from right and left. “You;: 
vour life!” 

He whipped a pistol out of his holster and pulled at the near- 
est head in a moment. 

The pistol missed fire. The next moment a blow from the 
butt-end of a horse- pistol dazed him, and he was dragged off his 
horse and his valise emptied in a minute. 

Before they had done with him. however, there was a clatter 
of hoofs, and the robbers sprang to their nags and galloped away 
for the bare life as a troop of yeomanry rode up. The tiling 
was so common the new-comers read the situation at a glance, 
and some of the best mounted gave chase; the others attended 
to Captain Cowen, caught his horse, strapped on his valise, and 
took him with them into Maidenhead, his head aching, his heart 
sickening aud raging by turns. All his gold gone, nothing left 
but a few one-pound notes that he had sewed into the lining of 
his coat. „ 

He reached the Swan next day in a state of sullen despair. 
“A curse is on me,” he said. “My pistol miss fire; my gold 


6 He was welcomed warmly. He stared with surprise. Barbara 
led the way to his old room, and opened it. He started back. 
“ Not there,” he said, with a shudder. 

“ Alack! Captain, we have kept it for you. Sure you are not 
afeared.” 


18 


THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 


“ No,” said he, doggedly — “ no hope, no fear.” She stared, 
but said nothing. 

He had hardly got into the room when, click, a key was turned 
in the door of communication. “ A traveler there!” said he. 
Then, bitterly, “ Things are soon forgotten in an inn.” 

“ Not by me,” said Barbara, solemnly. “ But you know oux 
dame, she can’t let money go by her. Tisour best room, mostly, 
and nobody would use it that knows the place. He is a stranger. 
He is from' the wars; will have it he is English, but talks foreign. 
He is civil enough when he is sober, but when he has got a drop 
he does maunder away, to be sure, and sing sucli songs I never. "' 

“ How long has he been here?” asked Cowen. 

“ Five days, and the mistress hopes lie will stay as many more, 
just to break the spell.” 

“He can stay or go,” said Cowen. “Iam in no humor foi 
company. I have been robbed, girl.” 

“You robbed, sir? Not openly, I am sure.” 

“ Openly, but by numbers — three of them. I should soon have 
sped one, but my pistol snapped fire just like his. There, leav« 
me, girl; fate is against me and a curse upon me. Bubbled out 
of my fortune in the City, robbed of my gold upon the road. To 
be honest is to be a fool.” 

He flung himself on the bed with a groan of anguish, and the 
ready tears ran down soft Barbara’s cheeks. She had tact, how- 
ever, in her humble way, and did not prattle to a strong man in 
a moment of wild distress. She just turned and cast a linger- 
ing glance of pity on him, and went to letch him food and wine. 
She had often seen an unhappy man the better for eating and 
drinking. 

When she was gone, he cursed himself for his weakness in let- 
ting her know his misfortunes. They would be all over the 
house soon. “ Why, that fellow next door must have heard me 
bawd them out. I have lost my head,” said he, “and I never 
needed it more.” 

Barbara returned with the cold powdered beef and carrots, and 
a bottle of wine she had paid for herself. She found him sullen, 
but composed. He made her solemnly promise not to mention 
his losses. She consented readily, and said, “You know I can 
hold my tongue.” 

When he had eaten and drunk and felt stronger, he resolved 
to put a question to her. “ How about that poor fellow ?” 

She looked puzzled a moment, then turned pale, and said, sol- 
emnly, “ ’Tis for this day week, I hear. ’Twas to be last week, 
but the King did respite him for a fortnight.” 

“ Ah, indeed! Do you know why?” 

“ No, indeed. In his place I’d rather have been put out of the 
way at once, for they w ill surely hang him.” 

Now in our day the respite is* very rare; a criminal is hanged 
or reprieved. But at the period of our story men w ere often res- 
pited for short or long periods, yet suffered at last. One poo. 
wretch was respited for two years, yet executed. This respite, 
therefore, was nothing unusual, and Cowen, though he looked 
thought/ul, had no downright suspicion of anything so serious 


THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 19 

to himself as really lay beneath the surface of this not unusual 
occurrence. 

I shall, however, let the reader know more about it. The 
judge in reporting the case notified to the proper authority that 
he desired his Majesty to know he was not entirely at ea>-e about 
the verdiet. There was a lacuna in the evidence against this 
prisoner. He stated the flaw in a very few words, but he did 
not suggest any remedy. 

Now the public clamored for the man’s execution, that trav- 
elers might be safe. The King’s adviser thought that if the 
judge had serious doubts, it was his business to tell the jury so. 
The order for execution issued. 

Three days after this the judge received a letter from Brad- 
bury, which I give verbatim: 

The King v. Cox. 

“ My Lord, — Forgive my writing to you in a case of blood. 
There is no other way. Daniel Cox was not defended. Counsel 
went against his wish, and would not throw suspicion on any 
other. That made it Cox or nobody. But there was a man in 
the inn whose conduct was suspicious. He furnished the wine 
that made the victim sleepy— and I must tell you the landlady 
would not let me see the remnant of the wine; she did every- 
thing to baffle me and defeat justice — he loaded two pistols so 
that neither could go off. He has get a pass-key, and goes in 
and out of the Swan at all hours. He provided counsel for 
Daniel Cox. That could only be through compunction. 

“ He swore in court that he slept that night at 18 Farringdon 
Street. Your Lordship will find it on your notes. For ’tvvas 
you put the question, and methinks Heaven inspired you. An 
hour after the trial I was at 18 Farringdon Street. No Co wen 
and no Captain had ever lodged there nor slept there. Present 
lodger, a City clerk; lodger at date of murder, an old clergyman 
that said he had a country cure, and got the simple body to 
trust him with a pass-key — so he came in and out at all hours of 
the night. This man was no clerk, but, as I believe, the cracks- 
man that did the job at the Swan. 

“ My Lord, there is always two in a job of this sort — the pro- 
fessional man and the confederate. Cowen was the confederate, 
hocussed the wine, loaded the pistols, and lent his pass-key to 
the cracksman. The cracksman opened the other door with his 
tools, unless Cowen made him duplicate keys. Neither of them 
intended violence, or they would have used their own weapons. 
The wine was drugged expressly to make that needless. The 
cracksman, instead of a black mask, put on a calf-skin waist 
coat and a bottle nose, and that passed muster for Cox by 
moonlight, puzzled Cox by moonlight, and deceived Gardiner by 
moonlight. 

“ For the love of God get me a respite for the innocent man, 
and 1 will undertake to bring the crime home to the cracks- 
man and to his confederate Cowen.” 

* * * * * * * 

Bradbury signed this with bis name and quality. 


20 


THE KNIGHTSBRTEQE MYSTERY. 


The Judge was not sorry to see the doubt his own wariness 
had raised so powerfully confirmed. He sent this missive on to 
the minister, with the remark that he had received a letter which 
oiight not to have been senttohim, but to those in whose hands 
the prisoner’s fate rested. He thought it his duty, however, to 
transcribe from his notes the question he had put to Captain 
Oowen, and his reply that he had slept at 13 Farringdon Street 
on the night of the murder, and also the substance of the 
prisoner’s defense, with the remark that, as stated by that un 
educated person, it had appeared ridiculous; but that after 
studying this Bow Street officer’s statements, and assuming them 
to be in the main correct, it did not appear ridiculous, but only 
remarkable, and it reconciled all the undisputed facts, whereas 
that Cox was the murderer was and ever must remain irrecon- 
cilable with the position of the knife and the track of the blood. 

Bradbury’s letter and the above comment found their way to 
the King, and he granted what was asked — a respite. 

Bradbury and his fellows went to work to find the old clergy- 
man, alias cracksman, but he had melted away without a trace, 
and they got no other clew. But during Cowen’s absence they 
got a traveler, i. e., a disguised agent, into the inn, who found 
relics of wax in the key- holes of Cowen’s outer door and of the 
door of communication. 

Bradbury sent this information in two letters: one to the 
judge, and one to the minister. 

But this did not advance him much. He had long been sure 
that Cowen was in it. It was the professional hand, the actual 
robber and murderer he wanted. 

The days succeeded one another: nothing was done. He la- 
mented, too late, he had not app ied for a reprieve, or even a 
pardon. He deplored his own presumption in assuming that he 
could unravel such a mystery entirely. His busy brain schemed 
night and day; he lost his sleep, and even his appetite. At last, 
in sheer despair, he proposed to himself anew solution, and acted 
upon it in the dark and with consummate subtlety; for he said 
to himself, “ I am in deeper water than I thought. Lord, how 
they skim a case at the Old Bailey! They take a pond for a 
X>uddle, and go to fathom it with a forefinger.” 

Captain Cowen sank into a settled gloom, but he no longer 
courted solitude; it gave him toe horrors. He preferred to be 
,-^in company, though he no longer shone in it. He made ac- 
' duaintance with his neighbor, and rather liked him. The man 
had been iu the Commissariat Department, and seemed half sur- 
prised at the honor a Captain did him in conversing witn him. 
But he was well versed in all the incidents of the late wars, and 
Cowen was glad to go with him into the past; for the present 
was dead, and the future horrible. 

This Mr. Cutler, so deferential when sober, was inclined to be 
more familiar when in his cups, and that generally ended in his 
singing and talking to himself in his own room in theabsurdest 
way. He never went out without a black leather case strapped 
across his back like a dispatch-box. When joked and asked as 
to the contents, he used to say, “Papers, papers,” curtly. 


THE K NIG HT SB RIDGE MYSTERY 


21 


One evening, being rather the worse for liquor, he dropped it, 
and there was a metallic sound. This was immediately com- 
mented on by the wags of the company. 

“ That fell heavy for paper,” said one. 

“ And there was a ring,” said another. 

“ Come, unload thy pack, comrade, and show us thy papers.’’ 

Cutler was sobered in a moment, and looked scared. Cowen 
observed this, and quietly left the room. He went up-stairs to 
his own room, and mounting on a chair, he found a thin place 
in the partition, and made an eyelet-hole. 

That very night he made use of this with good effect. Cutler 
came up to bed, singing and whistling, but presently threw 
down something heavy, and was silent. Cowen spied, and saw 
him kneel down, draw from his bosom a key suspended round 
his neck by a ribbon, and open the dispatch-box. There were 
papers in it, but only to deaden the sound of a great many new 
guineas that glittered in the light of the candle, and seemed to 
fire and fill the receptacle. 

Cutler looked furtively round, plunged his hands in them, 
took them out by handfuls, admired them, kissed them, and 
seemed to worship them, locked them up again, and put the 
black case under his pillow. 

While they were glaring in the light, Cowen’s eyes flashed 
with unholy fire. He clutched his hands at them where he 
stood, but they were inaccessible. He sat down despondent, and 
cursed the injustice of fate. Bubbled out of money in the City: 
robbed on the road; but when another had money it was safe; he 
left his keys in the locks of both doors, and his gold never quit- 
ted him. 

Not long after this discovery he got a letter from his son, tell- 
ing him that the college bill for battels, or commons, had come 
in, and he was unable to pay it; he begged his father to disburse 
it or he should lose credit. 

This tormented the unhappy father, and the proximity of 
gold tantalized him so, that he bought a vial of laudanum and 
secreted it about his person. 

“Better die,” said he, “and leave my boy to Barrington. 
Such a legacy from his dead comrade will be sacred, and he has 
the world at his feet.” 

He even ordered a bottle of red port, and kept it by him to 
swill the laudanum in, and so get drunk and die. 

But when it came to the point, he faltered. 

Meantime, the day drew near for the execution of Daniel Cox. 
Bradbury had undertaken too much. His cracksman seemed, to 
the King’s advisers, as shadowy as the double of Daniel Cox. 

The evening before that fatal day Cowen came to a wild reso- 
lution. He would go to Tyburn at noon, which was the hour 
fixed, and would die under that man’s gibbet. So was this pow- 
erful mind unhinged. 

This desperate idea was uppermost in his mind when he went 
up to his bedroom. 

But he resisted. No, he would never play the coward while 
there was a chance left on the cards. While there is life there 


32 


THE KNIGHTS BRIDGE MYSTERY. 


is hope. He seized the bottle, uncorked it, and tossed off a 
glass. It was potent, and tingled through his veins, and warm- 
ed his heart. 

He set the bottle down before him. He filled another glass. 
But before he put it to his lips jocund noises were heard coming 
up the stairs, and noisy, drunken voices, and two boon compan- 
ions of his neighbor Cutler, who had a double-bedded room 
opposite him, parted with him for the night. He was not 
drunk enough it seems, for he kept demanding t’other bottle. 
His friends, however, were of a different opinion; they bundled 
him into his room, and locked him in from the other side; and 
shortly after burst into their own, and were more garrulous 
than articulate. 

Cutler, thus disposed of, kept saying, and shouting, and whin- 
ing that he must have t’other bottle. In short, any one at a 
distance would have thought he was announcing sixteen prop- 
ositions, so various were the accents of anger, grief, expostula- 
tion, deprecation, supplication, imprecation, and whining ten- 
derness in which he declared he must have t’other bo’l. 

At last he came bump against the door of communication. 
•‘Neighbor,” said he, “your wuship, I mean great man of war.” 

“Well, sir?” 

“ Let’s have t’other bo'l.” 

Co wen’s eyes flashed. He took out his vial of laudanum, 
uid emptied about a fifth part of it into the bottle. 

Cutler whined at the door, “ Do open the door, your wuship, 
and let’s have t'other (hie).” 

“ Why, the key is on ycur side.” 

A feeble-minded laugh at the discovery, a fumbling with the 
key, and the door opened, and Cutler stood in the doorway, 
with his cravat disgracefully loose, and his visage wreathed in 
foolish smiles. His eyes goggled; he pointed with a mixture of 
surprise and low cunning at the table: “ Why, there is t’other 
bo’l; let’s have’m.” 

“ Nay,” said Cowen, “ I drain no bottles at this time. One 
glass suffices me. I drink your health.” He raised his glass. 

Cutler grabbed the bottle, and said, brutally, “And I’ll drink 
yours,” and shut the door with a slam, but was too intent on his 
prize to lock it. 

Cowen sat and listened. 

He heard the wine gurgle, and the drunkard draw a long 
breath of delight. 

Then there was a pause; then a snatch of song, rather melodi- 
ous, and more articulate than Mr. Cutler’s recent attempts at 
discourse. 

Then another gurgle, and another loud “ Ahl” 

Then a vocal attempt, which broke down by degrees. 

Then a snove. 

Then a somnolent remark — “ All right.” 

Then a staggering on to his feet. 

Then a swaying to aud fro, and a subsiding against the door. 

Then by and by a little reel at the bed, and a fall flat on the 

floor. 


THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 


23 


Then stertorious breathing. 

Cowen sat still at the key-hole some time, then took off his 
boots and softly mounted his chair, and applied his eye to the 
key-hole. 

Cutler was lying on his 6tomach between the table and the 
bed. 

Cowen came to the door on tiptoe and turned the handle gent- 
ly; the door yielded. 

He lost nerve for the first time in his life. What horrible 
6hame, should the man come to his senses and see him! 

He stepped back into his own room, ripped up his portman- 
teau, ana took out, from between the leather and the lining, a 
disguise and a mask. He put them on. 

Then he took his loaded cane; for he thought to himself, “No 
more stabbing in that room,” and he crept through the door 
like a cat. 

The man lay breathing stertoriously, and his lips blowing out 
at every exhalation like lifeless lips urged by a strong wind, so 
that Cowen began to fear, not that he might wake but that he 
might die. 

It flashed across him he should have to leave England. 

What he came to do seemed now wonderfully easy; he took 
the key by its ribbon carefully off the sleeper's neck, unlocked 
the dispatch-box, took off his hat, put the gold into it, locked 
the dispatch-box, replaced the key, took up his hatful of money, 
and retired slowly on tiptoe as he came. 

He had but deposited his stick and the booty on the bed, when 
the sham drunkard pinned him from behind, and uttered a shrill 
whistle. With a fierce snarl Cowen whirled his captor round 
like a feather, and dashed with him against the post of his own 
door, stunning the man so that he relaxed his hold — and Cowen 
whirled him round again, and kicked him in the stomach so 
felly that he was doubled up out of the way, ’and contributed 
nothing more to the struggle except his last meal. At this very 
moment two Bow Street runners rushed madly upon Cowen 
through the door of communication. He met one in full career 
with a blow so tremendous that it sounded through the house, 
and drove him all across the room against the window”, where 
he fell down senseless; th«*other he struck rather short, and 
though the blood spurted and the man staggered, he was on him 
again in a moment, and pinned him. Cowen, a master of 

E ugilism, got his head under his left shoulder, and pommeled 
im cruelly; but the’ fellow managed to hold on till a power- 
ful foot kicked in the door at a blow, and Bradbury himself 
sprang on Captain Cowmen with all the fury of a tiger; he seized 
him by the throat from behind, and throttled him, and set his 
knee to his back; the other, though mauled and bleeding, 
whipped out a short rope, and pinioned him, in a turn of the 
hand. Then all stood panting but the disabled men, and once 
more the passage and the room were filled with pale faces and 
panting bosoms. 

Lights flashed on the scene, and instantly loud screams from 


24 


THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 


the landlady and her maids, and as they screamed they pointed 
with trembling fingers. 

And well they might. There — caught red-handed in an act 
of robbery and violence, a few steps from the place of the mys- 
terious murder — stood the stately figure of Captain Cowen and 
the mottled face and bottle nose of Daniel Cox, condemned to 
die in just twelve hours’' time! 


CHAPTER IV. 

“Ay, scream, ye fools,” roared Bradbury, “that couldn't see 
a church by daylight.” Then, shaking his fist at Cowen: “ Thou 
villain! ’Tisn’t one man you have murdered, ’tis two. But 
please God I’ll save one of them yet, and hang you in his place. 
Way there! not a moment to lose.” 

In another minute they were all in the yard, and a hackney- 
coach sent for. 

Captain Cowen said to Bradbury, “ This thing on my face is 
choking me.” 

“ Oh, better than you have been choked — at Tyburn and all.” 

“ Hang me. Don’t pillory me. I’ve served my country.” 

Bradbury removed the wax mask. He said afterward lie had 
no power to refuse the villain, he was so grand and gentle. 

“ Thank you, sir. Now what can I do for you? Save Daniel 
Cox ?” 

“ Ay, do that and I’ll forgive you.” 

“ Give me a sheet of paper.” 

Bradbury, impressed by the man’s tone of sincerity, took him 
into the bar, and, getting all his men round him, placed paper 
and ink before him. 

He addressed to General Barrington, in attendance on his Maj- 
esty, these: 

“ General, — See his Majesty betimes, tell him from me that 
Daniel Cox, condemned to die at noon, is innocent, and get him 
a reprieve. Oh, Barrington, come to your lost comrade. The 
bearer will tell you where I am. I cannot. 

“Edward Cowen.” 

“ Send a man you can trust to Windsor with that, and take 
me to my most welcome death.” 

A trusty officer was dispatched to’ Windsor, and in about an 
hour Cowen was lodged in Newgate. 

All that night Bradbury labored to save the man that was con- 
demned to die. He knocked up the sheriff of Middlesex and 
told him all. 

“ Don’t come to me,” said the sheriff: “go to the minister.'* 

He rode to the minister’s house. The minister was up. His 
wife gave a ball — windows blazing, shadows dancing — music- 
lights — night turned into day. Bradbury knocked. The door 
flew open and revealed a line of bedizened footmen dotted at 
intervals up the stairs. 

“ I must see my Lord. Life or death. I’m an officer from 
Bow Street.” 


THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 25 

“ You can’t see my Lord. He is entertaining the Proosian 
Embassador and his sweet.” 

“ I must see him, or an innocent man will die to-morrow. 
Tell him so. Here’s a guinea.” 

“ Is there ? Step aside here.” 

He waited in torments till the message went through the 
gamut of lackeys, and got, more or less mutilated, to the 
minister. 

He detached a buffer, who proposed to Mr. Bradbury to call at 
the Do-little office in Westminster next morning. 

“ No,” said Bradbury, “ I don't leave the house till I see him. 
Innocent blood shall not be spilled for want of a word in time.” 

The buffer retired, and in came a duffer, who said the occasion 
was not convenient. 

“ Ay, but it is,” said Bradbury, “ and if my Lord is not here 
in five minutes I’ll go up-stairs and tell my tale before them all, 
and see if they are all hair dressers’ dummies, without heart, or 
conscience, or sense.” 

In five minutes in came a gentleman with an order on his 
breast, and said, “You are a Bow Street officer ?” 

“Yes, my Lord.” 

“Name?” 

“ Bradbury.” 

“ You say the man condemned to die to-morrow is innocent ?” 

“Yes, my Lord.” 

“ How do you know ?” 

“ Just taken the real culprit.” 

“ When is the other to suffer?” 

“Twelve to-morrow.” 

“Seems short time. Humph! Will you be good enough to 
take a line to the sheriff? Formal message to-morrow.” 

The actual message ran: 

“ Delay execution of Cox till we hear from Windsor. Bearer 
will give reasons.” 

With this Bradbury hurried away, not to the sheriff, but the 
prison; and infected the jailer and the chaplain and all the turn- 
keys with pity for the condemned, and the spirit of delay. 

Bradbury breakfasted, and washed his face, and off to the 
sheriff. Sheriff was gone out. Bradbury hunted him from pil- 
lar to post and could find him nowhere. He was at last obliged 
to go and wait for him at Newgate. 

He arrived at the stroke of twelve to superintend the execu- 
tion. Bradbury put the ministers note into his hand. 

“ This is no use,” said he. “I want an order from his Maj- 
esty, or the Privy Council at least.” 

“ Not to delay,” suggested the chaplain. “ You have all the 
day for it.” 

“ All the day! I can’t be all the day hanging a single man. 
My time is precious, gentlemen.” Then, his bark being worse 
than his bite, he said, “ I shall come again at four o’clock, and 
then, if there is no news from Windsor, the law must take its 
course.” 

He never came again, though, for, even as he turned his back 


26 


THE KNIGHTS BRIDGE MYSTERY . 


to retire, there was a faint cry from the furthest part of the 
crowd, a paper raised on a hussar’s lance, and, as the mob fell 
back on every side, a royal aid-de camp rode up, followed 
closely by the mounted runner, and delivered to the sheriff a re- 
prieve uuder the sign-manual of his Majesty, George the First. 
* * * * * * * 

At 2 P. M. of the same day, General Sir Robert Barrington 
reached Newgate, and saw Captain Cowen m private. That un- 
happy man fell on his knees and made a confession. 

Barrington was horrified, and turned as cold as ice to him. 
He stood e/ect as a statue. “ A soldier — to rob,” said he. “ Mur- 
der was bad enough — but to rob!” 

Cowen. with his head and hands all hanging down, could only 
say, faintly, “ I have been robbed and ruined, and it was for my 
boy. Ah me! what will become of him ? I have lost my soul 
for him, and now he will be ruined and disgraced — by me, who 
would have died for him.” The strong man shook with agony 
and his head and hands almost touched the ground. 

Sir Robert Barrington looked at him and pondered. 

“ No,” said he. relenting a little, “ that is the one thing I can 
do for you. I had made up my mind to take your son to Can- 
ada as my secretary, and 1 will take him. But he must change 
his name. I sail next Thursday.” 

The broken man stared wildly, then started up and blessed 
him; and from that moment the wild hope entered his breast 
that he might keep his son unstained by his crime, and even 
ignorant of it. 

Barrington said that was impossible; but yielded to the 
father’s prayers, and consented to act as if it were po?sible. He 
would send a messenger to Oxford, with money and instructions 
to bring the young man up and put him on board the ship at 
Gravesend. 

This difficult scheme once conceived, there was not a moment 
to be lost. Barrington sent down a mounted messenger to Ox- 
ford, with money and instructions. 

Cowen sent for Bradbury, and asked him when he was to ap- 
pear at Bow Street. 

“ To-morrow, l suppose.” 

“ Do me a favor. Get all your witnesses: make the case com- 
plete, and show me only once to the public before lam tried.” 

“Well, Captain.” said Bradbury, “ you were square with me 
about poor Cox. I don’t see as it matters much to you; but I’ll 
not say you nay.” He saw the solicitor for the Crown, and 
asked a few days to collect all his evidence. The functionary 
named Friday. 

This was conveyed next day to Cowen, and put him in a 
fever; it gave him a chance of keeping his son ignorant, but no 
certainty. Ships were eternally detained at Gravesend, waiting 
for a wiud; there were no steam-tugs then to draw them into the 
blue water. Even going down the Channel letters boarded them, 
if the wind slacked. He walked bis room to and fro, like a 
caged tiger, day and night. 

Wednesday evening Barrington came with the news that his 


THE KNIGHTS BRIDGE MYSTERY \ 


27 


son was at the Star in Cornhill. ‘‘ I have got him to bed,” 
said he, “ and. Lord forgive me, I have let him think he will see 
you before we go down to Gravesend to-morrow.” 

“ Then let me. see him,” said the miserable father, “ He shall 
know naught from me.” 

They applied to the jailer, and urged that he could be a pris- 
oner all the time, surrounded by constables in disguise. No: the 
jailer would not risk his place and an indictment. Bradbury 
was sent for, ami made light of the responsibility. “ I brought 
him here,” said he, “ and I will take him to the Star, I and my 
fellows. Indeed, he will give us no trouble this time. Why, 
that would blow the gaff, and make the young gentleman fly to 
the whole thing.” 

“ It can only be done by authority,” was the jailer s reply. 

“ Then by authority it shall be done,” said Sir Robert. “ Mr. 
Bradbury, have three men here with a coach at one o’clock, and 
a regiment, if you like, to watch the Star.” 

Punctually at one came Barrington with an authority. It 
was a request from the Queen. The jailer took it respectfully. 
It was an authority not worth a button; but he knew he could 
not lose his place with this writing to brandish at need. 

The father and son dined with the General at the Star. 
Bradbury and one of his fellows waited as private servants: 
other officers, in plain clothes watched back and front. 

At three o’clock father and son parted, the son with many 
tears, the father with dry eyes, but a voice that trembled as he 
blessed him. 

Young Co wen, now Morris, went down to Gravesend with his 
chief; the criminal back to Newgate, respectfully bowed from 
the door of the Star by landlord and waiters. 

At first he was comparatively calm, but as the night advanced 
became restless, and by and by began to pace his cell again like 
a caged lion. 

At twenty minutes past eleven a turnkey brought him a line; 
a horseman had galloped in with it from Gravesend. 

“ A fair wind — we weigh anchor at the full tide. It is a mer- 
chant vessel, and the Captain under my orders to keep off shore 
and take no messages. Farewell. Turn to the God you have 
forgotten. He alone can pardon you.” 

On receiving this note, Cowen betook him to his knees. 

In this attitude the jailer found him when he went his round. 

He waited till the Captain rose, and then let him know that 
an able lawyer was in waiting, instructed to defend him at Bow 
Street next morning. The truth is, the females of the Swan 
had clubbed money for this purpose. 

Cowen declined to see him. “ I thank you, sir,” said he. “I 
will defend myself.” 

He said, however, he had a little favor to ask. “ I have been,” 
said he, “of late much agitated and fatigued, and a sore trial 
awaits me in the morning. A few hours of unbroken sleep 
would be a boon to me.” 

“ The turnkeys must come in to see you are all right.” 


28 THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 

“ It is their duty: but I will lie in sight of the door if they will 
he good enough not to wake me.” 

“ There can be no objection to that, Captain, and I am glad to 
see you calmer.” 

“ Thank you; never calmer in my life.” 

He got his pillow, set two chairs, and composed himself to 
sleep. He put the candle on the table, that the turnkeys might 
peep through the door and see him. 

Once or twice they peeped in very softly, and saw him sleep- 
ing in the full light of the candle, to moderate which, apparent- 
ly, he had thrown a white handkerchief over his face. 

At nine in the morning they brought him his breakfast, as he 
must be at Bow Street between ten and eleven. 

When they came so near him it struck them he lay too still. 

They took off the handkerchief. 

He had been dead some hours. 

Yes, there, calm, grave, and noble, incapable, as it seemed, 
either of the passions that had destroyed him or the tender af- 
fection which redeemed yet inspired his crimes, lay the corpse 
of Edward Cowen. 

Thus miserably perished a man in whom were many elements 
of greatness. 

He left what little money he had to Bradbury, in a note im- 
ploring him to keep particulars out of the journals for his son’s 
sake, and such was the influence on Bradbury of the scene at the 
Star, the man’s dead face, and his dying words, that, though 
public detail was his interest, nothing transpired but that the 
gentleman who had been arrested on suspicion of being con- 
cerned in the minder at the Swan Inn had committed suicide; 
to which was* added, by another hand: “Cox, however, has the 
King’s pardon, and the affair still remains shrouded with mys- 
tery.” 

Cox was permitted to see the body of Cowen, and, whether the 
features had gone back to youth, or his own brain, long sobered 
in earnest, had enlightened his memory, recognized him as a man 
he had seen committed for horse-stealing at Ipswich, when he 
himself was the mayor’s groom; but some girl lent the accused 
a file, and he cut his way out of the cage. 

Cox’s calamity was his greatest blessing. He went into New- 
gate scarcely knowing there was a Gfod; he came out thoroughly 
enlightened in that respect by the teaching of the chaplain and 
the death of Cowen. He went in a drunkard; the noose that 
dangled over his head so long terrified him into life-long sobriety 
— for he laid all the blame on liquor — and he came out as bitter 
a foe to drink as drink had been to him. 

His case excited sympathy; a considerable sum was subscribed 
to set him up in trade. He became a horse-dealer on a small 
scale; but he was really a most excellent judge of horses, and, 
being sober, enlarged his business; horsed a coach or two; at- 
tended fairs, and eventually made a fortune by dealing in cav- 
alry horses under government contracts. 

As his money increased his nose diminished, and when he died, 


THE KNIGHTSBRIDGE MYSTERY. 29 

old and regretted, only a pink tinge revealed the habits of his 
earlier life. 

Mrs. Martha Oust and Barbara Lamb were no longer sure; but 
they doubted to their dying day the innocence of the ugly fellow, 
and the guilt of the handsome, civil-spoken gentleman. 

But they converted nobody to their opinion; for they gave 
their reasons 


[the end.] 


THE PICTURE 


By CHARLES READE. 


PART I. 

I AM now seventy, and learning something every day; espe- 
cially my ignorance. But fifty-two years ago I knew' every- 
thing, or nearly— I had finished my education. I knew a little 
Greek and Latin, a very little vernacular, a little mathematics, 
and a little war; could march a thousand men into a tieid. and 
even out of it again— on paper. So I left Paris, and went home 
to rest on my oars. 

Months rolled on; I still rested on my oars— rested on them so 
industriously that at last my mother,' a very superior woman, 
took fright at my assiduous inactivity, and bundled me out of 
the boat. 

She had an uncle w ho loved her, and, indeed, had reared her 
as a child. She wrote to him. concealing neither her maternal 
pride nor her maternal anxieties. He replied, “Send the boy 
here, and if he is anything like you, he shall be my son and 
successor.” He was a notary, and had a good business. 

In due course the dilligence landed me far from home, at a 
towm in Provence. A boy and an ass were waiting for me. On 
these beasts of burden I strapped my effects, and the quadruped 
conducted us by a bridle-road through groves and by purling 
streams to a range of hills, at whose foot nestled my uncle’s 
villa, lawn, garden, and vineyard. The contrast was admira- 
ble. The hills, w r ith their rocky chasms, were bold, grand', and 
grim, and the little house, clothed with flowering creepdrs, the 
velvet lawn, watered twice a day and green as emerald, and the 
violet plums peeping among the olive- colored leaves, w’ere quiet- 
ly enchanting. “ Oh,” thought I, “ what a bower for a hard 
notary 1” ' r 

The hard notary met me with open'arms, embraced me, held 
me out, gazed at me, said, in a broken voice, “ You are very like 
your darling mother.” and embraced me again. I was installed 
in a pretty bedroom with a bay-window, curtained ouRide by a 
magDolia in full bloom; pigeons cooed outside ex j morning 
an hour before breakfast, leaves glistened with dew, and flowers 
diffused sweet smells. 

Next day my uncle took me into the town to his office, and in- 
troduced me to his managing clerk as his partner and successor. 
He left me under charge of this worthy wdiile he pursued his real 


THE PICTURE. 


31 


vocation, bric-a-brac. He was so unfortunate as to pick up a 

g reat bargain, a vile old jug; he itched to go home with it; so I 
ad no time to master my new business that day. 

The good cure dined with us, and my uncle presented us both 
to him, jug and nephew — especially jug; but the cure was im- 
partial, and took a gentle interest, real or fictitious, in us both. 
He was a man of learning and piety, and had seen strange and 
terrible things in France; had known great people and great 
vicissitudes, though now settled in a peaceful village — “ post tot 
naufragia tutus.” He was a gentle, amiable soul, a severe judge 
of nothing but cruelty and deliberate vice, and a most interest- 
ing companion if you chose; by which I mean that he had 
neither the animal spirits nor the vanity ^rhich make a man 
habitually fluent; but if you could suspend your own volubility 
and question him, a well of knowledge. 

My uncle had two servants — Catherine, a tall, gaunt woman, 
tanned, hollow-eyed, and wrinkled; and Suzon, a pretty, rosy, 
bright-eyed maid. Her my uncle ignored; Catherine was his 
favorite, a model of industry, fidelity, and skill; besides, she re- 
sembled antique mugs, etc., whereas little Suzon was more like 
modern porcelain, Provence roses, and such-like ephemeral 
things. Suzon was always in the background, Catherine always 
to the fore. She cooked the dinner; yet she must put on an 
apron and a cap of the past and wait upon us, even when the 
cure or a stray advocate from Paris was our guest, and Suzon 
would have done us credit. Ere long this latter arrangement 
became grievous to me, for I fell in love; and this gaunt creature 
came between me and the delight of my eyes. It was my first 
attachment. I had seen a good many pretty girls, and danced 
with them; but I thought them frivolous, and they took me for 
a pedant. I was a poet, and aimed high. Accordingly, I fell 
in love with a picture — or with the goddess it represented. 

My uncle’s dining-room combined the salon and the salle a 
manger. It was very long and broad, and the round table de- 
voted to meals could be placed in any part of the room. Eight 
could dine at it, yet there was room for it in the great bay-win- 
dow, and it ran smoothly upon little wheels instead of casters: 
so did all the chairs, ottomans, fauteuils, and sofas. Chinese 
vaees dve feet highland always filled with flowers, guarded the 
four corners of the room; vast landscapes were painted on the 
walls, and framed in panels of mellow oak; many pieces of curi- 
ous old plate glittered on the sideboard; a large doorway with 
no door, but an ample curtain of blue Utrecht velvet, led into a 
library of choice books splendidly bound, many of them by an- 
tique "binders, the delight of connoisseurs. Over the mantel- 
piece of the dining-room hung a picture m an oval frame, mass- 
ive, ant^catved with great skill and simplicity; this frame had 
been chippp J in places, and there was a black-looking hole in the 
right border, and some foreign substance imbedded. 

The picture was a portrait (life size) of a young lady, resplen- 
dent with youth and beauty, the face oval and forehead pure, the 
lips and peeping teeth exquisite, and the liquid gray eyes full 
of languor above and fire below, that arrested and enchanted. 


82 


THE PICTURE. 


The dress had, no doubt, been selected for pictorial effect; for 
the waist was long and of a natural size, and the noble bare 
arms adorned only with dark-blue velvet bands, which set off 
the satin skin. 

Soft sensations and vague desires thrilled me as I gazed on 
this enchanting picture, and I longed and sighed for the 
original. 

The gaunt Catherine at dinner-time kept getting between me 
and my goddess, and I hated the sight of her, and said she pur- 
posely interposed her hideousness between me and that divine 
beauty. But now, having had fifty years to consider the mat- 
ter, I think she stood behind her master’s chair, whether there 
was a love-sick difamer at the table or not, and was intent on 
her duties, not rav dreams. 

After I had thoroughly absorbed this lovely creature’s perfec- 
tions. and satisfied myself that her character was as noble, arch, 
and lovable as her features, 1 found it difficult to go on living 
without ever hearing her enchanting voice, or kissing her hand, 
or, at all events, some portion or other of her dress. So I asked 
my uncle timidly for her name and address. 

The answer was discouraging: How should I know?” I 
bought her for the frame, you may be sure; it is what the fools 
call rococo; that m<>ans admirable.” 

“ And so it is, now I look at,” said I; “ but oh, uncle, what is 
that compared with the divine effigy!” 

“Divine fiddlestick!” said he. “Look at her little finger, all 
out of drawing!” 

Here was a notary against whom it could not be urged, “ de 
minimis non curat lex” Why, I could hardly help laughing in 
his face. 

“ Her little finger!” I cried. “ Look at her lips, her teeth, her 
eyes — brimful of heaven!” 

“ That inspection I leave to you, young man,” said my uncle, 
calmly; “ but I should like to know what that black mark in 
the frame is.” 

“ And so you shall, uncle,” said I, with the ready good nature 
of youth; and thereupon I jumped on a chair, and from the 
chair alighted like a bird on the mantel-piece, and my uncle 
ejaculated and trembled — for the woodwork, not me. I exam- 
ined the hole in the frame, and found a substance imbedded. I 
took out my penknife, nearly fell on my uncle’s head, recovered 
myself with a yell, cut a small slice off the substance, and re- 
ported: “Uncle, it is lead — a bullet, a big one. There, now, O 
base world! Ah, sovereign beauty, your charms have well-nigh 
cost your life. Some despairing lover, whom she esteemed but 
could not love, or, likelier still, some rival crushed under her 
charms, has committed this outrage. Oh! oh! oh! There are 
some golden hairs attached to the bullet. Horrible! horrible!” 

“Malediction on the fools!” cried my uncle. “Why could 
they not fire at the daub, and spare the frame?” He added, 
more composedly, that evidently some mob had attacked the 
house during the troubles, and one of the savages had fired at it 
out of pure ruffianism. 


THE PICTURE. 


33 


“No, no,” said I; “that does not account for these golden 
hairs. Oh, uncle, who is she? I will travel all France if neces- 
sary. Do but tell me where I can find her.” 

“How can l tell what churchyard she lies in? Why, it is 
fifty years since such frames were made in this now tasteless 
country.” 

“ Cruel uncle, do not say so,” cried I, in piteous accents. “Ah, 
no: they found a quaint old frame to act as a foil to her youth 
and beauty. I will copy her. I will make an etching of her; I 
am rather skillful in that way. I will send impressions all round 
France; I will solicit information. I shall find her. She is 
single; she has not found her peer in my sex. Is it likely she 
would? I will surround her with homage; 1 will tell her how 1 
pined for her and sought her, and found her first because I 
loved her best; I will throw myself at her feet; I will kiss the 
hem of her sweet robe. I will Gonel” 

Gone he was, in mid-tirade, with his hands in his pockets; he 
escaped my juvenile eloquence, and I heard him whistling. 

I loved her all the more, and lived for our first rapturous 
meeting. 

In due course another idle attempt was made to refrigerate 
my immortal love; this one came from that old hag Catherine. 
I used to set my easel after breakfast, and work nearly all day 
reproducing the beloved features. One afternoon I could not 
stop for anything. Catherine came in and pottered about, lay- 
ing the cloth for dinner. That was hard, but I thought it harder 
when suddenly her voice jarred upon my amorous soul with a 
calm observation: 

“ Is not that a waste of time ?” 

I looked up, amazed at such an interference. 

“ I mean,” said she,” “ that we do not need another picture of 
her” 

“ You don't, I dare say; female beauty is not to your taste; 
but the world requires a great many pictures of this peerless 
creature; and the world shall have them, whether you like it or 
not.” Catherine shrugged her shoulders, and said the world 
could do very well without them. “And for- my part,” said 
she, “ I cannot think what you see so admirable in that face.” 

“ Look at it without envy, hatred, or malice, if you can, and 
then you will see.” 

Thus brought to book, the grim creature folded her arms and 
gazed on the portrait in a dignified and attentive manner that 
surprised me. “ I find it is beautiful,” said she, calmly. 

“ What a discovery !” 

“ The beauty of youth, and health, and rather good features.” 

“ What a concession!” 

“ But I search in vain for the beauty of the soul. With youth 
should go modesty and humility; but here I see vanity and-self- 
sufficiencv.” 

“And I see only a noble pride, tempered with such sweetness 
and archness. There, instead of running her down to me, when 
you might as well blacken the morning-star, I should be truly 
grateful to you if you would help me find out where she lives. 


34 


THE PICTURE. 


Alive she is; my heart tells me so. Death, more merciful than 
envy, has spared those peerless features.” 

Catherine stared. “Who is she? — why, what does that mat- 
ter to you ? She is old enough to be your grandmother; look at 
the frame.” 

“ Malediction on the frame! You are as bad as my uncle. He 
bought her for the frame. She is not old; sbe never will be old; 
such beauty is immortal. Now tell me, my good Catherine. I 
dare say you have lived in this district all your life — Gone!” 

It was too true; the servant, like the master, had escaped my 
enthusiasm and left me to my theories. But I painted on, and 
loved my idol in finite of thenTall, and held fast my determina- 
tion to discover her by publishing her features from Havre to 
Marseilles. 

******* 

One day my uncle received a very welcome letter. It an- 
nounced a visit from an old fellow-collegian of his, a highly dis- 
tinguished person, a statesman, an embassador, and peer of 
France — the Comte de Pontarlais. This thrilled me with excite- 
ment and curiosity. I had never sat at the same table with an 
embassador. Only I feared our way of living would seem very 
humble, and, w'orst of all, that Catherine would wait at table, 
and get between his Excellency and our one peerless gem, the 
portrait of my divinity. 

I was all in a flutter as the hour drew near, and looked out for 
a carriage with outriders, whence should emerge a figure striped 
with broad ribbon and emblazoned with orders. 

Arrived with military precision an elderly gentleman on a 
mule, with a small valise carried by a peasant. He was well 
dressed, but simply; embraced my uncle affectionately; and 
they walked up and down the grass, arm-in-arm, to be as near 
one another as possible, since they met so seldom. From the 
lawn they entered the library; and I was going thither somewliat 
shyly, to be presented, when Suzon met me in wild distress. 

“Oh, Monsieur Frederic! what shall we do? Here’s Catherine 
been ailing this three days and scarce able to get about, and the 
master ordered a great dinner, and she would cook it, and not 
fit to stand, and she fainted away, and now she is lying down on 
her bed more dead than alive.” 

“ Poor thing!” said I. “ Well, you must get a woman into the 
kitchen, and you put on your best cap and wait.” 

“Since you ordered it,” said Suzon, demurely, and lowered 
her eyelashes. Now this extreme deference had not been her 
habit hitherto. 

Encouraged by this piece of flatterv, I added: “ And please 
stand behind my chair to-day instead of my uncle’s. It is not 
that I wish to give myself importance 

“The idea!” said Suzon. 

“ But that — ahem! — his Excellency ” 

“I understand,” said Suzon; “you wish me to have a good 
look at him — and so do I.” 

So may a man’s best motives be misinterpreted by shallow 
minds. J 


THE PICTURE. 


35 


The next moment I entered the library, and was presented, 
blushing, to his Excellency. He put me at my ease by his kind- 
liness and quiet, genial manner. To be sure, such men have a 
different manner for different occasions. He had long studied 
with success the great art of pleasing. Under this charming 
surface, however, I could see a calm authority, and in those well- 
cut features Voltairian finesse. 

By and by Suzon announced dinner, and I took that oppor- 
tunity to say that poor Catherine was very ill, and his Excellency 
would have much to excuse. 

His Excellency interrupted me: “ My young friend, trust to 
my experience. Company is spoiled by service; the fewer 
majestic and brainless figures stand behind our chairs, the better 
for lis. The most delightful party I can remember, everything 
was on the table, or on a huge buffet, and we helped ourselves 
and helped each other. Why, the very circumstance loosened 
our tongues, that formality would have paralyzed. We puffed 
all the dishes to which we invited our fair convives, and told ro- 
mantic stories about them, and not a word of truth.” Thus 
chatting he entered the salle a manger, and was about to take 
the seat my uncle waved him to, when he suddenly started 
back, with an ejaculation, not loud but eloquent, and his eyes 
fixed upon the portrait of my idol. 

The very next moment he turned them with a flash of keen 
and almost suspicious inquiry upon my uncle; then quietly 
seated himself at the table, and his host, good man, observed 
nothing. 

For my part, I \yas trembling with curiosity all dinner-time, 
and longing to ask the great man if he had seen some living 
beauty who resembled that portrait. But I was too shy. My 
eyes kept traveling from him to the portrait, and back, but I 
said nothing. However, his quick eye must have detected me, 
for after dinner was over, and Suzon ordered to make the coffee, 
his Excellency, who was peeling a pear very carefully, looked 
steadily at me, and said, “May I ask how that portrait came 
here?” 

“Oh, yes, Monsieur le Comte,” said I. “My uncle bought it 
in a bric-a-brac shop.” 

Mv uncle hastened to justify his conduct — it was the frame 
which had tempted him. “ However,” said he, “the picture, 
incorrect as it is — just look at that little finger! — has found a 
rapturous admirer in my nephew there, who, you may have re- 
marked, is very young.” 

“It has,” said I, stoutly. “ It reflects her beauty and her ex- 
pression, and no bad picture does that. I'd give the world to 
find out the artist, for then he would tell me where I can find 
the divine original.” 

“That does not follow,” said the Count, dryly; “ these fair 
creatures keep in one place during the sitting; but in the course 
of the next forty years or so they consider themselves at liberty 
to move about like the rest of us.” 

“Oh, of course,” said I; “but such beauty must leave traces 


36 THE PICTURE . 

everywhere. I am sure, if I knew who painted the picture, l 
coulcl find the original.” 

“I will put that to the test,” said his Excellency. “ Coo^ 
now— I painted the picture.” 

I bounded off my chair with the vivacity of youth, and stood 
staring at our guest with all my eyes. “ Your said I, panting. 

“ Astonishing!” said my uncle. Then, calmly, “ That accounts 
for the little finger.” 

“For shame, uncle!” said I. “It’s a masterpiece. Ah, sir, 

you must have been inspired by Who is she? Who was 

she?” 

“ She ^vas my betrothed.” 


PART II. 

I stared at the speaker, first stupidly, then incredulously, 
then with a growing conviction that the marvelous revelation 
was nevertheless true; then my uncle and I, by one impulse, 
turned round and looked at the picture with a fresh gush of 
wonder; theu we turned back to the Count again and glared; 
but found no words. 

At last I managed to stammer out, “ Betrothed to her and not 
married!” 

“Strange, is it not?” said the Count, with a satirical shrug. 
“Permit me,” said he, with ironical meekness, “to urge in my 
defense that I have not married any one else.” 

I said I could well understand that. 

“Pooh!” said my uncle, “ he has been taken up with affairs 
of State.” 

“That is true,” said his Excellency; “yet to he frank, my 
celibacy is partly due to that fair person. * She administered a 
lesson at a time of life when instruction, deeply engraved, re- 
mains in the mind forever.” 

“Tell us all about it,” said my uncle, “if it is not a sore sub- 
ject.” 

“ Alas, my friend,” said Monsieur de Pontarlais, after forty 
years, what subject is too sore to handle?” Even the tender 
poets versify their youthful groans. I will tell the whole story 
— not to you. on whom it will be comparatively wasted, but to 
my young friend opposite. He is evidently fascinated by my 
fair betrothed, and her eye enchains him — as it once did me.” 

I blushed furiously at this keen old man’s sagacity, but stood 
my ground, and avowed the rapturous interest I felt in a creat- 
ure so peerless. 

Then came to me a bewitching hour. An accomplished old 
man told us a thrilling passage of his youth, with every charm 
and grace that could adorn a spoken narrative. The facts 
struck so deep that I can reproduce them in order; but the tones, 
the glances, the subtle irony, the governed and well-bred emo- 
tion — where are they? They linger still, like distant chimes, in 
my memory, and must die with me. 

“ I was born,” said Monsieur de Pontarlais, “ when parent® 


THE PICTURE. 


87 


raarned their children, and the young people had hardly a voice. 
At ten years of age I was betrothed to Mademoiselle Irene, only 
daughter of the Marquis de Groucy, my father’s fast friend. 
Between that period and my coming of age great changes took 
place in France, and a terrible revolution drew near. But my 
father made light of all plebeian notions, so did his friend; and, 
indeed, if they had listened to anything so absurd as the new 
cry of Liberty, Equality, and Fraternity seemed to them, it 
would not even then have occurred to them to depart from the 
rights of nature; and was it not one of those rights that parents 
should christen, educate, confirm, and marry their children 
when and how they thought proper? 

“ Accordingly, at twenty-one years of age, my parents sent 
me into this very province to marry and make acquaintance 
with Mademoiselle de Groucy. The Marquis, a tall, military 
figure, bronzed by the suns of Provence, met me with his gun 
slung at his back. He embraced me warmly, ancl his dogs 
barked round me with the ready cordiality of sporting dogs. I 
felt at home directly. 

“ The marquis and I dined en tete-a-tete; I was anxious to see 
my bride, but she did not appear. After dinner we adjourned 
to the salon , but she did not appear. I cast timid glances to- 
ward all the doors; the marquis observed, and rang a bell, and 
ordered coffee and his daughter. The coffee came directly, and 
while we were sipping it a female figure glided in at the great 
door, and seemed to traverse the parquet by some undulating 
movement which was quite noiseless, though everybody else 
clattered on the floor at that epoch. 

“Instead of the high shoes, bare neck, and short, slight w T aist 
of the day, she w T as in rational shoes, and a loose dress of India 
muslin that moved every way with her serpentine figure, and 
veiled, without hiding, her noble arms and satin bust. As she drew 
nearer her loveliness dazzled me. I rose and bowed respectfully. 
Her father apologized for this model of symmetry and beauty. 

“ ‘Be pleased to excuse her dress,’ said he. ‘It is my fault: 
they came roaring at me with news of a wild boar, and I forgot 
to tell her who was coming to-day.’ 

“ I said I did not pretend to judge ladies’ dresses, but thought 
the costume beautiful. I suppose my eyes conveyed that I knew 
where the beauty lay. The young lady edged quietly away, and 
put her father a little between us; but there was no tremor, nor 
painful, blushing shyness. 

“Afterward, at her father's order, she poured me out a cup 
of coffee with the loveliest white hand I had ever seen, and, 
though reserved, she was more self-possessed than I was. 

“The Marquis invited me to a game of piquet, I was off my 
guard, and consented. The beauty saw us fairly engaged, then 
glided out of the room, leaving me a little mortified with myself 
as a wooer; for at twenty- one years of age nature prevails over 
custom, and we desire to please our bride even before we marry 
her. 

“Next day Monsieur de Groucy, who was a mighty sports- 
man, invited me to join him; but, with some hesitation and con- 


38 


THE PICTURE. 


fusion, I said I was very desirous to pay respect to my fiancee, 
and to show her how much I admired her already. 

“ My host thanked me gracefully in his daughter’s name, inti- 
mated that in his day marriage used to come first and then 
courtship, but said I was at liberty to reverse the order of things 
if I chose; it would all come to the same in the end. 

“ On this understanding I devoted myself to wooing my beau- 
tiful betrothed. She gave me no direct encouragement, but she 
did not avoid me. She was often in her own room; and out of 
it she was generally guarded by a stately gouvernantc, one 
Mademoiselle Donon. But this lady had the discretion to keep 
guard a few yards off, and I treated her as a lay figure. These 
encounters soon destroyed my peace of mind, and filled all my 
veins with an ardent passion for the peerless creature whose dead 
likeness hangs there — and it really is a likeness; but where are 
the prismatic changes that illumined her mobile features? And 
all of them, even scorn and anger, were beautiful; but each 
softer sentiment divine. 

“ Unfortunately, while she set me on fire, she remained quite 
cool; though she did not avoid me personally, her mind some- 
how evaded mine on nearly every topic that young people delight 
in. She listened with polite indifference to all my descriptions 
of Paris and its gayeties; and when I assured her she would be 
the acknowledged "belle of that brilliant city, she said, quietly, 
that it would not compensate her for the loss of her beloved 
mountains; and she turned from me to the window and fixed a 
long, loving look upon them that set me yearning for one such 
glance. 

“ She rarely contradicted me, but that must have been pure 
indifference, for she never doubted about anything; I soon found 
out that trait in her character. 

“ One day a local newspaper related a popular outrage in our 
neighborhood. The rude peasants in their political ardor had 
sacked and destroyed a noble chateau. 

“ ‘ Where will this end ?’ said I. ‘ Will revolutionary madness 
ever corrupt the simple, primitive people one meets about this 
chateau ?’ 

4 ‘Why, it is done already,’ said my host. 4 Emissaries from 
Paris, preachers of anarchy, are wriggling like weasels all 
through the nation, with books and pamphlets and discourses, 
teaching the common people that all titles are an affront to the 
ignoble, and all hereditary property a theft from those who have 
no ancestors. (Wait till a peasant gets a landed estate, and then 
see if his son will resign to the first beggar that covets it.) Why, 
I caught two of their inflammatory treatises in this very house. 
By the same token, I sent them to the executioner at Marseilles, 
with a request that he would burn them publicly, and charge me 
his usual fee for the extinction of vermin.’ 

“ During this tirade Irene changed color, and seemed to glow 
with ire; but she merely said, or rather ground out between her 
clinched teeth, ‘ Nothing will stop the march of free opinion in 
France.’ 


THE PICTURE. 39 

“‘lam afraid not,’ said her father. * Still I have some little 
faith left in charges of cavalry and discharges of grape-shot.’ 

“ ‘A fine argument!’ said she, haughtily. 

“ I was so unlucky as to suggest that it was one the virtuous 
citizens who had just sacked the neighboring chateau would 
probably understand better than any other. The father laughed 
Ins approval, but the daughter turned on me with such a flash 
of furious resentment that I quailed under her eye; it glittered 
wickedly. Nothing more was said, but from that hour I learned 
that my glacier was inflammable. 

“ It was not long before I received another lesson of the same 
kind. I happened to remark one day that Mademoiselle Donon, 
the gouvemante , as I have called her, must have been a hand- 
some woman in her day. ‘ Handsome ?’ said the Marquis; ‘ there 
was not such a figure and such a face in the country-side; and 
the late Marquise used to urge her to marry, and offered her 
a handsome dowry to wed one of her rustic admirers; and I 
offered to lick him into shape, and employ him in the house ; 
but poor Donon, accustomed to good society and French, could 
never bring her mind to marry a rustic and patter patois.’ 

“‘What blind vanity!’ said Irene. ‘Those rustics are free 
men, and she is a menial. Such a husband would have elevated 
her, in time, to his own level.’ 

“ ‘Ay,’ said the Marquis; ‘ this is the cant of the day. But 
learn, mademoiselle, that in such houses as ours a faithful do- 
mestic is not a menial, but a humble friend, respecting and re- 
spected. And Donon is an intelligent and educated woman: 
she would have really descended in the scale of humanity if she 
had allied herself to one of these uneducated peasants.’ 

“ Mademoiselle de Groucv made no reply, but her whole frame 
quivered, and she turned white with wrath. White! She was 
ghastly. I looked at her with surprise, and with a certain chill 
foreboding. I had seen red anger and black anger, but this 
white-hot ire, never; and all about what? Her theories contra- 
dicted somewhat roughly by her father; but theories which, I 
concluded, she could only have gathered from books, for she 
rarely went abroad except to mass, and never without her duen- 
na. Looking at her pallid ire, and the white of her eye, which 
seemed to enlarge as she turned her head away from the Mar- 
quis in her grim determination not to reply to him, I could not 
help saying to myself, ‘I’m not her father, and husbands are 
apt to provoke their wives; this fair creature will perhaps kill 
me some day.’ I felt all manner of vague alarms at a character 
so cold, so fiery, so profound, so unintelligible to me, and akked 
myself then and there whether it would not be wise to withdraw 
my claims to her. 

“ But I could not. Like the bird that flutters round the daz- 
zling serpent, I was fascinated by the beautiful, dangerous 
creature, and neither able nor honestly willing to escape. 

“ Meantime the grand and simple character of my father- in- 
3aw won my heart, and I used now and then to go out shooting 
with him— for his company, not the sport. One day he shot a 
hare running by the edge of a precipice; she rolled over, and lay 


40 


THE PICTURE. 


in sight of us on a ledge of rock, hut at a depth of eighty feet at 
least, and the descent almost perpendicular. The Marquis or- 
dered his dogs by name to go down and fetch up the hare. They 
ran eagerly to the edge to oblige him, and barked zealously, but 
did not like the commission. We were about to abandon our 
prey in despair, when suddenly there appeared on the scene a gi- 
gantic peasant, with a shock head of red hair so thick and stiff 
and high that his cap seemed to be perched on a bundle of car- 
rots. Close at his heels, -with nose inserted between his calves, 
came a ragged lurcher. This personage looked over the edge of 
the ravine, saw our difficulty, grinned, and with perfect sang- 
froid proceeded to risk his life and his cur’s for our hare. He 
made an oblique descent, with the help of certain projections 
and shrubs, the dog sliding down at his heels, and on an emer- 
gency fixing his teeth in the man’s loose trousers, till they 
reached a part where the descent was easier. Then the lurcher 
started on his own account, and with great dexterity scrambled 
down to the hare, and scrambled up with her in his mouth back 
to his master. 

“But now came a very serious question: how were they to 
get back again ? I felt "really anxious, and said so; but "the 
Marquis said, ‘Oh, don’t be afraid; this fellow is the athlete 
of the district; wins all the prizes; they Call him the champion. 
He will get out of it somehow. The man hesitated a momeut 
for all that. But he soon hit upon his plan. He took the hare 
up, and held her by the skin of her back, with teeth the size of 
ivory chess-pawns: then he put his dog before him, and slowly, 
carefully driving the points of his thick boots into every 
crevice, and grasping with iron strength every ledge or tuft 
that offered, he effected the perilous ascent; but it was no child’s 
play. The perspiration trickled down his face, and he panted 
a little. 

“I offered him a three-franc piece (none of them left now), 
but he declined it rather cavalierly, and busied himself with 
putting the hare into the Marquis’s game-bag. He was so gen- 
erous as to add a little wooden figure he took out of his bosom. 
But this contribution was not observed by the Marquis — only by 
me — and I was pleased, and still more amazed, by this giant’s 
simplicity. 

“On our return we were met in the hall by Irene, and her 
gouvernante; and the Marquis, when he took the hare out of the 
game-bage, told her how it had been recovered for him by the 
champion and his dog. 

“ ‘What is the name of that colossus that wins all the prizes?’ 

“ 4 Michel Flaubert,’ said the young lady. 

“ ‘ Ay, Flaubert, that’s his name — a vaurien that wrestles, 
and dances, and poaches, and won’t work. No matter; he saved 
my hare, he and his cur. I will buy that cur if he will sell 
him. What have we here ? And he drew out the little wooden 
figure. We all inspected the crude image. ‘ It is a sportsman,’ 
said the Marquis, leaning on his gun. He will blow his own 
head off some day,’ 


THE PICTURE. 


41 


“Mademoiselle Donou opined it was a saint, and begged the 
Marquis not to part with it; it would bring him good luck. 

“ ‘ You are blind,’ said Irene; ‘ it is a shepherd leaning on his 
staff.’ And she put out her white hand, took the hideous statu- 
ette, and put it into her pocket. I said she did it great honor. 

“ ‘ No,’ said she; * I only do it justice. You who despise the 
simple art of a self-taught man, what can you do that you have 
not been taught?’ 

“‘I can love for one thing,’ said I. And Mademoiselle de 
Groucy colored high at that, but tossed her head. ‘ And in the 
matter of art, if I cannot cut little dolls that resemble nothing 
in nature, I can paint a picture that shall resemble a creature 
whose loveliness none but the blind will dispute.’ 

“ ‘Oh, indeed,’ said she, satirically; ‘and pray what creature 
is that ?’ 

“ ‘ It is yourself.’ 

“ ‘Me!’ 

“ ‘ Yes. Do me the honor to sit to me for your portrait, and I 
am quite content you shall compare my work with the sculpture 
of the illustrious Flaubert.’ 

“‘A fair challenge!’ cried the Marquis, joyously. ‘And I 
back the gentleman.’ 

“ ‘ Oh, of course,’ said his daughter. * But the day is gone by 
for despising our fellow-creatures.’ 

“ ‘ I despise no honest man,’ said I. ‘ But so long as education 
and refined sentiments go with birth, you will be superior in my 
eyes to any peasant girl, and why not I to a peasant?’ 

“ The Marquis stopped me. ‘ Why waste your time in com- 
bating moonshine ? My daughter knows these rustics only in 
landscapes and revolutionary pamphlets. Oh. 1 forget! she has 
seen them in church; but she never heard them, far less smelled 
them. Ye gods! when that Flaubert toiled up the precipice and 
brought me my hare, it was like a kennel of foxes.’ 

“ At that Mademoiselle de Groucy left the room with queeuly 
dignity. She was invincible. Her way of retiring put us both 
in the wrong, especially me, and I made a vow to connive at her 
theories in future. What did they matter, after all ? I had gained 
one great point this time; I was to paint her picture. I fore- 
saw, as a lover, many advantages to be gained by that, and I 
lost no time in buying and preparing the canvas. The best 
lighted room for the purpose proved to be Irene’s boudoir; so I 
was introduced into that sanctum, and for some hours every 
day had all the delights of a painter in love. I directed her 
superb poses; I had the right to gaze at her and enjoy all her 
prismatic changes. She was reserved and full of defense, but 
not childishly shy. She could not be always on her guard, so 
ever and anon came happy moments when she seemed conscious 
only of her youth and her beauty. Then a tender light glowed 
through her limpid eyes, and she looked at me with that divine 
smile, which my hand, inspired by love, has rendered better 
perhaps than a skillful artist would have done whose heart was 
not in the work. The picture advanced slowly but surely. The 
Marquis himself one day spared his partridges and sat with us. 


42 


THE PICTURE 


He was delighted, and said, ‘ This portrait is mine, since I give 
you the original;’ and he ordered a magnificent frame for it 
directly. 

“ The portrait was finished at last, and my courtship pro- 
ceeded with a certain smoothness: only I made no very percep- 
tible advances. I never contradicted her republican theories: 
indeed, I was so subdued by her grand beauty I dared not thwart 
her in any way. Yet somehow I could not find out her heart; it 
evaded me. Often she seemed to be looking over my head at 
some greater person or grander character. I remember once in 
particular that I sat by her side on the veranda. After many 
attempts on my part the conversation died, and I was content 
to sit a little behind her and watch her grace and beauty. She 
leaned her swan -like neck softly forward, her white brow just 
touched the flowering creepers, and she seemed in a soft reverie. 
I, too, contemplated her in quiet ecstasy. Suddenly she blushed 
and quivered, and her lovely bosom rose and fell tumultuously. 
I started up and looked over to see who or what it was that 
moved her so. Instinct then told me I had a rival, and that he 
was in sight. 

“ I looked far and near. I could see no rival. It was the 
usual sleepy landscape: a few washerwomen at the fountain 
hard by, a few peasants dispersed over the background. 

“ For all that my mind misgave me, and at last I opened my 
heart to my friend the Marquis. I told him I was discouraged 
and unhappy; his daughter’s heart seemed above my reach. 

“ ‘ Fiddle-de-dee!’ said he. ‘ It all comes of this new system; 
courting young ladies before marriage spoils them. They don’t 
know" all they gain by marriage, so they give themselves airs.’ 

“ ‘ Ay,’ said I, ‘ but that is not all; I have watched her close- 
ly, and there is .-ome one her heart beats for, though not for 
me.’ 

“ ‘ Nonsense,’ said he; ‘ there is not a gentleman she would 
look at in the distiict. I know them all.’ 

“ ‘ But, monsieur,’ said I, ‘perhaps some prince of the blood 
has passed this way, or some great general, or hero, or patriot, 
and she has given him her heart; for she looks above me, and 
does not disguise it.’ 

“‘She lias seen no such personage,’ was the reply. ‘Ask 
Donon, who never leaves her.’ 

“ ‘ Then,’ said I, ‘it must be some imaginary character too 
lofty for poor me to compete with, for an idol she has.’ 

“ ‘ Humph!’ said the Marquis — ‘ that is possible.’ 

“ ‘She reads pernicious books,’ said I. ‘ I found her reading 
the “Nouvelle Heloise” in her boudoir.’ 

“Monsieur de Groucy lost his composure directly. ‘The 
“ Nouvelle Heloise,” ’ said he; ‘and did you not fling" it out of 
the window?’ 

“ I confessed I dared not. I dared do nothing to offend her. 

“The Marquis bestowed a look of pity on me, and left the 
room all in a hurry, and I awaited his return in no little anxietv. 
He came back in about half an hour, which he must have spent 
in ransacking his daughter’s library. He reappeared with the 


THE PICTURE. 


43 


‘ Nouvelle Heloise,* a philosophic History, by I forget whom, a 
discourse on Superstition (vulgarly called Religion), by D’Alem- 
bert, and one or two works tending to remove the false distinc- 
tion civilization had invented between meum aud taum and the 
classes of society. The Marquis showed me the books, and then 
invited me to follow him. He went first to the kitchen, and 
made the cook brand these chef -d' oeuvres of modern sentiment 
with a red-hot iron. Then he had them carefully packed in a 
box and sent to the executioner at Marseilles for public confla- 
gration. 

“ Having thus eased his mind, he reviewed the situation more 
calmly. k My son,’ said he, ‘you have tried your new-fangled 
system with the result that might have been expected. You 
approach the girl cap in hand, and she gives herself airs accord- 
ingly. Now we will try ancestral wisdom. Next Sunday I 
shall publish your bans in the church, and this day week 
( Wednesday) you will marry her; and on Thursday you will find 
her obliging; on Friday, affectionate; on Saturday, cajoling. 
Saturday af ternoon she will probably make the usual attempt to 
be master— they all do. You will put that down with a high 
hand, and from that hour she will respect and love you with all 
the loyalty of her race.’ 

“ His confidence inspired me. His affection and partisanship 
affected me deeply. I threw myself into his arms, and I re- 
member I said, ‘ If she would only love me as much as I love 
you ’ And then my tongue faltered. 

“ The Marquis patted me tenderly on the head with his huge 
hand — he was a man of great stature — and said, ‘ She shall 
adore you. Leave that to me.’ 

“ I am bound to admit that so much of the programme as 
depended on him was carried out to the letter. The very next 
Sunday we all went to mass in state; and after the service the 
priest read out from the altar, with a loud voice, 

“ ‘ Are betrothed this day, the high and excellent Seigneur 
Gregoire, Viscount of Pontarlais. and the high and excellent 
damsel Irene de Groucy,’ etc. There was an angry murmur 
from the crowd; they objected to our titles. The Marquis 
shrugged his shoulders with unutterable scorn at that, and said, 
aloud, ‘ Monsieur le Vicomte. do me the honor to give your hand 
to your bride, and pass out before the rest of us.’ 

“ 1 came forward with a beating heart. Mademoiselle de 
Groucy was pale, and trembling a little— she was evidently taken 
bv surprise; but she put her hand in mine without a moment’s 
hesitation, and we marched down the aisle, and through the 
western door. But, once outside the place, the people flocked 
round us, aud there were some satirical murmurs, at which the 
Marquis changed color, and his eyes Hashed contemptuous ire. 
But presently a band of about twelve broke through the mass, 
headed by that very peasant who had rescued our hare for us; 
and he came cap in hand, and begged the Marquis to preside at 
the wrestling and shooting for prizes which were to take place 
that afternoon. , 

“ I think, had it been any other applicant, the offended gentle- 


44 


THE PICTURE. 


man would have refused; but he remembered his hare, and the 
fellow’s good services, and gave a cold consent. Then we turned 
to go home, but the crowd once more embarrassed us, and it 
was not a friendly crowd. My blood got up, and. taking my be- 
trothed under my arm, I prepared to force a passage; but she 
slipped from me like an eel, and said, imperiously, ‘Flaubert, 
clear the way. The giant, on this order, stepped in front of us, 
and shoved the other peasants out of the way, right and left, as 
if they had been so much dirt. As soon as we were clear, he 
turned on his heel with as utter a contempt for those who were 
not his equals in brute strength as ever a French noble showed 
for those who were not his equals in birth and breeding. 

“ We walked home, mademoiselle in front, haughtily, as one 
whom no such trifles could disturb; but the Marquis somber and 
agitated. He put his hand on my shoulder, and said. ‘ We have 
almost been insulted. This will end in bloodshed. I shall pre- 
pare the defense of my castle. You said a good thing the other 
day: grape-shot is an argument the canaille can understand. 
Meantime, we honor that village with no more visits. Your 
wedding will be celebrated in my private chapel.’ 

“I looked anxiously to see how my betrothed received tnis. 
She said nothing; but, somehow, her whole body seemed to hear 
it. After breakfast I entered her boudoir, and found her trim- 
ming a scarf of many colors with gold lace. It was in the worst 
possible taste, but I dared not say so. I asked, with feigned ad- 
miration, whom it was to adorn. 

“ ‘You, if you can earn it.’ said she, dryly. ‘ It is for the vic- 
tor in the sports: the swiftest runner, the strongest wrestler. 
You have only to eclipse these despised peasants in such manly 
exercises, and I shall have the honor of placing it on your 
shoulders.’ 

1 saw she was bent on mortifying me, and perhaps drawing 
me into a quarrel; so I remembered Wednesday was near, and 
said, as pleasantly as I could, 1 Do not think I share your father’s 
violent prejudices. I desire to be just to all men. There is 
much to admire in the hardy, honest sons of toil. But neither 
are the gentry fit subjects of wholesale contempt. The peasant 
who carves a figure which one critic takes for a shepherd, an- 
other for a sportsman, and another for a saint, could not paint 
your picture to save his life, and a polite duel with glittering 
rapiers demands more true manhood than a wrestling bout.’ 

“ My words, I knew, would not please her. so I made the tone 
so humble and conciliatory that she vouchsafed no reply. 

“ Then 1 sat down beside her, and asked her to forgive me if 
1 esteemed a little too highly that class she belonged to and 
adorned. None the less should her opinions alwavs be respected 
by me. Then I added: ‘ Why should we waste our time on such 
subjects? For my part, I am too happy to dispute. Oh, if I 
was only more worthy of you! and if I but knew how to make 
you love me a little, now that you have accepted me publicly as 
your betrothed ’ 

“ 1 Bay “ my espouser ’ said she, calmly. Then I remembered 
that in Kousseauks volume of poison that pedantic, sensual hussy 


THE PICTURE. 


45 


applies this term to the two suitors she despises. I was stung 
with the scorpion jealousy, and my old suspicion revived and 
maddened me. ‘Ah!’ said I, haughtily/ and who is the St. 
Preux for whom you mortify me so cruelly ? It he is worthy of 
you, ‘ how comes it he is afraid to show his face ?’ 

“ Be assured,’ said she, with sullen dignity, ‘ I shall never 
marry any one of whom I am ashamed.’ 

“ ‘ Of that I am sure,’ said I; ‘ and if ever St. Preux appears, 
and comes between ray betrothed and me, it will he an honor to 
me to cross steel with him, and a greater still to kill him, which 
I shall do, as sure as heaven is above us. ! At that time I was an 
accomplished swordsman. 

“ • Oh,* said she, ‘ then you would marry me against my will?’ 

“ ‘No,’ said I, staggered by so direct a blow; ‘but I would not 
go back from my troth plighted at the altar; would you? The 
conversation is taking such a turn that I think monsieur the 
Marquis de Groucv is entitled to share in it.’ 

“ She turned pale, but recovered herself in a moment. ‘That 
is unnecessary,’ said she. ‘I am sorry if I have offended you.’ 
She drooped her bead with infinite grace, and when she raised 
it she smiled on me and said, ‘ I am flattered by your affectiou. 
You have the prejudices of your class, but not their vices. Let 
us be friends.’ She held out her white hand. I fell on my knees 
and kissed it devotedly. 

“‘Ob, how I adore you!’ I sighed; and my eyes filled with 
tenderness. Even hers seemed to dwell on me with a gentler 
expression than I had ever seen before in them. 

“ But just as I was making friends with her so sweetly, came 
a cruel interruption.” 

These words were scarcely out of the narrator’s mouth when 
what I thought a cruel interruption occurred. The cure came 
in, dripping. My hospitable uncle had his outer garment re- 
moved, and a pint of old Burgundy spiced and heated, and in 
his warm hospitality would have resigned the story altogether. 

But that was intolerable to me. As soon as I could with 
decency T said, timidly, “ Monsieur le cure loves a good story as 
well as anybody.” 

“ That I do,” said the cure , with such zeal that I could have 
hugged him. And in short, after a few polite speeches, and a 
reminder from me as to where he had left off, Monsieur de Pont- 
arlais resumed; and it struck me at the time that he was not 
sorry to have one more intelligent and attentive auditor, for 
indeed the good cure seemed to drink in every word. 

“ Well, gentlemen, my courtship was interrupted by a sum- 
mons to visit the sports. As to the running and the shooting, I 
remember only that it was nothing to boast of, and that the 
prize for the latter was won by that red-headed giant, and that 
he came to the Marquis, cap in hand, and received a pewter 
mug. 

“ Then came the wrestling. Two rustics, naked to the waist, 
struggled together with more strength than skill. One was 
thrown, and retired crestfallen. Another came on, and threw 


46 


THE PICTURE . 


the victor. Each bout occupied a long time. The sun began to 
sink, and your humble servant to yawn. 

“My betrothed was all eyes and enthusiasm, though the sight 
was more monotonous than delicate; but the Marquis pitied me, 
and said, ‘ You are not bound to endure all this. The result is 
known beforehand. After two dozen encounters a victor will 
be declared, and then “the champion” will throw him with 
considerable ease: the champion is that red-headed giant Flau- 
bert. He will come forward and go down on one knee, and ray 
daughter will bestow this scarf on him. Brought your smell- 
ing-bottle, child, I hope ? Then, on other occasions, I used to 
feast them all; but after their insolence at the church-door — in- 
solence to you, monsieur mon gendre — I shall admit only the 
champion Flaubert and his guard of honor, twelve in number. 
Pierre has his orders: if the rest try to force their way, he will 
let the portcullis down on their heads. They have all been told 
that, and why .’ 

“ Well, I did not care to see my betrothed put that scarf upon 
the champion, so I strolled away, and wandered about the 
chateau. An irresistible curiosity led me to that part of the 
building in which Mademoiselle de Groucy slept. Her bedroom 
was in a large tower looking down upon the parterre, which 
was, like the hanging gardens of Babylon, full thirty feet above 
the plain the castle stood on; for, indeed, it was a castle rather 
than a chateau. I entered her bedroom with a tremor of curios- 
ity and delight; it was large and lofty; the bed had no curtains, 
and was covered with a snowy sheet —nothing more. Spartan 
simplicity was seen in every detail. The picture, framed as you 
see it now, rested on two huge chairs; and at this my heart 
beat. On a table by the side of the looking-glass I discovered the 
quaint little figure Flaubert had bestowed upon the Marquis 
along with the famous hare. * Well,’ thought I, looking at that 
monstrosity and at my picture, ‘ that is a comparison she is 
welcome to make.’ I was ashamed of my curiosity, and soon 
retired. I went and sat in her boudoir. Her work was about; 
there were many signs of her presence; a delicate perfume 
mingled with the scents of the flowers. I sat at the open win- 
dow. Voices murmured in the chateau, but outside all was 
still. Soft dreams of coming happiness possessed me; I leaned 
my head out of window and drank the evening air, and thought 
of Wednesday, and the life of bliss to follow. I was calm, and 
for the first time ineffably happy. 

“The sun set; the castle was still; no doubt even the limited 
number of visitors admitted by the Marquis had retired; still I 
remained there in a delicious reverie. Presently, in the dark- 
ness, I thought I saw a figure pass 1 along close to the wall, and 
stop at the tower a little while. Then it suddenly disappeared, 
so that it was most likely a shadow. Shadow or not, I was going 
to be jealous again, when my betrothed entered the roomgayly, 
and invited me to supper. 

“ ‘ You must not abandon us altogether,’ said she; and she 
beamed so, and her manner was so kind and caressing, that I 


THE PICTURE. 4? 

was in the seventh heaven directly. She gave me her nand of 
her own accord, and I conducted her to the salle a manger. 

“‘Oh, you have found him, have you?’ said the Marquis, 
gayly. ‘ That is lucky, for I have the appetite of a wolf.’ 

“ A noble repast was served in honor of our betrothal, and we 
did honor to it. I forget what was said, but I remember that 
for the first time Irene allowed her gifts to appear. What ani- 
mation! what grace! what sparkling wit without ill-nature! 
what inimitable powers of pleasing, coupled for once with the 
desire to please! Oh, marvelous inconsistency of woman! 

“ Her father was fascinated as well as I, and embraced her 
warmly when she retired, with a sweet, submissive apology to 
mp, saying that the day, though delightful, had been a little 
fatiguing. 

“ Her father and I remained, and instead of our invariable 
piquet, were well content to sing her praises and congratulate 
ourselves. 

“ The subject was inexhaustible, and I am sure we had sat to- 
gether more than an hour when a great murmur of voices was 
heard, and Mademoiselle Donon came in with a terrified air to 
say that there was a tumult outside. 

“ ‘ More likely a serenade on this festive occasion,’ suggested 
the Marquis. But at that moment the great bell of the church 
began to peal. It was the tocsin. 

“ ‘ Are we on fire,’ cried the Marquis, ‘ and don’t know it?’ 

“ I ran to the window, threw it open, and looked out. I saw 
flaming torches moving toward the castle from various parts, 
and heard angry murmurs. 

“ ‘ Sir,’ said I, in no little agitation, ‘ they are going to attack 
us, as they did that other chateau.’ 

“ De Groucy smiled grimly. ‘ All the worse for them if they 
do. I had the draw-bridge raised at dusk, and we have plenty 
of ammunition.’ 

“ Here a servant came in with a face of news. 

“ ‘What is the matter?’ asked the Marquis. 

“ ‘ They have not the sense to say,’ replied the man. He was 
the master of the hounds. ‘ I hailed them through the grating, 
and asked them to declare their grievance. But the fools kept 
roaring “ The champion ! the champion!’’ and not another word 
could I get out of them. Do they think we have taken the 
blackguard prisoner?’ 

“ ‘Stuff!’ said the Marquis; ‘that is a blind. Load all the 
muskets with ounce bullets this instant.’ 

“ The man retired to execute this order. 

“ ‘ But, sir,’ said I, ‘ may not the champion have been shut in 
when you raised the draw-bridge ? I thought I saw a figure on 
the parterre, groping his way about in the dark.’ 

“ ‘ No, no,’ said the Marquis. ‘ If any one had been shut in by 
accident he would have come to the postern, and the janitor 
would have let him out. Any stick to beat a dog! any excuse to 
insult or pillage their betters — that^s the France we live in now. 
So be it. Not one of the canaille shall enter the place alive.’ 

“ ‘ I am at your orders,’ said I, catching fire. 


48 


THE PICTURE. 


“ All these, you must understand, were hurried words, spoken 
as we marched, the Marquis leading the way, up the great stair- 
case. At the head of it Pierre and Guillaume met him with 
loaded muskets and ammunition, and he then said to me, 

“ ‘ You wonder, perhaps, to see me so calm, with women under 
my charge, and wild beasts howling outside. But I am a soldier, 
and know what I am about. This castle is simply impregnable 
to foes of that kind except at one spot, the small postern, and 
that is bound with iron. Should they batter it down, the aper- 
ture is small; we three can kill them all, one at a time; and at 
daybreak I will hand the survivors over to Captain Beaumont, 
who will be here with a squadron of mounted carbineers. The 
worst of it is, Vicomte, I must disturb your betrothed, for it is 
only from her window we can fire upon the postern.’ 

“ He led the way to his daughter’s room, and we naturally 
drew back. In the passage adjoining a cold wind blew on us, 
and a small but massive door with gigantic bolts was found to 
be ajar. 

“ The Marquis turned round on us, astonished, and for the 
first time showed anxiety. He said, in a low, unsteady voice, 

“ ‘ Who has opened this passage?’ 

“‘Does it lead to the parterre?’ said I, and began to fearsome 
strange mystery. 

“ ‘ It did,’ said he, ‘ but I condemned it ten years ago.’ 

“ ‘Full that, sir,’ said Pierre; ‘ ’twas I nailed it up, by j T our 
orders. I wish I knew the traitor who has taken out the nails 
and drawn the bolts back.’ 

“ The Marquis’s cheek was pale and his eyes flashed, ‘ To the 
portcullis, Pierre and Guillaume,’ said he, ‘ and if any stranger 
comes to it from the house, kill him without a word. You and 
I, son-in-law, can defend the postern.’ 

Our forces thus separated, he went on to his daughters room, 
and knocked gently; there was no reply. He knocked louder; 
there was no reply. 

“ ‘ She is asleep,’ said he; ‘ I will go in and prepare her,’ 

“Then I drew back, out of delicacy. 

“ He took out a pass-key and opened the door. 

“ There was a man in his daugnter’s room. 

“ That man was ‘ the champion.’ 

“ The champion stood motionless, and looked quite stupefied. 

“Mademoiselle de Groucy, quick as he was slow, darted be- 
fore him with extended arms to protect him; but the next mo 
ment cried, ‘ Fly, fly for your life!’ The moment she made way 
for him to fly the Marquis leveled his musket, and fired at his 
head with as little hesitation as he would at a wild boar. 

“ What I took to be the champion’s brains flew horribly before 
the discharge; the air was all smoke; a heavy body rushed be- 
tween the Marquis and me and drove us apart, and the door of 
the condemned passage was slammed. Monsieur de Groucy 
strode into the room; I followed him. The smoke began to 
clear, and all things were visible as in a mist; patches of hair 
floated about, mowed by the bullet off the champions skull. 

“ Irene leaned against the mantel-piece, white as a ghost; but 


THE PICTURE. 


49 


only her body crouched, and that not much; her haughty head 
was erect, and her eyes faced us, shining supernaturally. The 
Marquis, stout as he was, sank into a chair and trembled. 

“ ‘ How did that man get in here?” said he hoarsely. 

“ ‘ I let him in by the condemned door,’ said she, pale but un- 
flinching. * Cannot you see that J love him ?’ 

“ ‘ You love that canaille f groaned the Marquis. 

“ ‘ I love that young man because he is a man, and has ail the 
virtues that belong to bis humble condition. He earns his 
bread, and I shall be proud to earn mine with him. But it is 
you and this gentleman who have hastened things; you were 
forcing me and hurrying me into a marriage without iove. No 
misery, no degradation, can equal that. That is why I called 
him to my aid. I placed myself under his protection.’ 

“ 1 1 will kill him,’ said the marquis to me, with deadly calm- 
ness. 

“She came forward directly and folded her arms before him. 
* Then you will kill my honor, for he is my lover; I belong to 
him.’ 

“ At that audacious avowal the marquis rose like a tower, and 
lifted his hand to fell her to the earth. But he did not strike 
her. Better for her, perhaps, if he had, for words can be more 
terrible than blows. 

“ ‘ Since you can fall no lower,’ said he, ‘ marry your peas- 
ant, and live on his dung-hill with him. You are no child of 
mine. I banish you, and I disown you, and may God's curse 
light on you and him forever!’ 

•‘Then for the first time her proud head drooped upon her 
hand, and that hand upon the mantel- piece. ‘You will forgive 
me one day,’ she murmured, faintly. 

‘Forgive you?’ said he. with unutterable scorn; ‘ I shall for- 
get you. 4 You are no more to me now than the dirt I walk on. 
Come, my son, my only child.’ He took my hand and drew’ me 
away. He never looked back; but T cast one long, miserable 
glance on her whom it was my misery to love and hate. Her 
white wrist rested on a high chair, her head was bowed, yet her 
fearless e} es did not turn from us. She w j as beautifui as she 
stood there, half cowed by a father’s curse; as beautiful as she 
had been in her scorn, in her ire, and in her happy reveries, 
when her lips parted with that happy smile, and a tender fire 
glowed in her dewy eyes.” 

******* 

While the narrator paused, and we sat silent, looking at the 
picture, Suzon came hurriedly in. with tears in her eyes, and 
told the cure Catherine was very ill indeed, and begging to see 
him. He rose directly and accompanied her. 

“You had better sleep here,” said my uncle; “your bed is 
always ready, you know.” 

“With pleasure,” said he. 

As soon as the door had closed on him I remarked, rather 
peevishly, that I never knew an interesting story allowed to 
proceed without a whole system of interruption. 

The elders smiled at my impatience. Monsieur de Pontarlais 


50 


THE PICTURE. 


suggested that perhaps I felt those interruptions more than 
others. Mv uncle said: “ We must take good men as they are, 
and thank God for them. I have known him fourteen years, 
yet never once to neglect a sick person for any personal gratifi- 
cation whatever.” 

Then, I remember, I was half ashamed of myself, and said I 
venerated the good cure , and loved him dearly, and if he would 
stay with Catherine, well and good; but he would be coming 
back in a few minutes, and it was this perpetual va-et-vient that 
was breaking my heart and the thread of the only beautiful story 
I had ever heard told by word of mouth. 

“Calm yourself, my young friend,” said Monsieur de Pontar- 
lais — “ my story is nearly ended. 

“The Marquis compelled me to leave him, after a while, and 
seek repose. I could not find it; I raged with fury; I sickened 
with despair; I loved and I hated. This is the world’s hell. 

“The first thing next morning Mademoiselle Donon came to 
the Marquis and me, in tears, and told us she had heard all, but 
implored us not to believe one word against Irene’s honor. She 
could only, until that fatal night, have spoken to the man at the 
village fetes, or from the balcony of the parterre, forty feet 
above the ground. ‘Poor inexperienced girl,’ said she, ‘how 
should she measure her words? She did not know what she 
was saying.’ 

“ ‘The pupils of Rosseau have not much to learn,’ was the 
grim reply. 

“ The next minute Pierre came in and told us mademoiselle 
had left the house with a bundle in her hand, and dressed like a 
peasant girl. I started up, but the Marquis laid a hand of iron 
on me. ‘ Let her go,’ said he. ‘ Let her taint a peasant’s home; 
she shall not dishonor mine. Her own mother should not keep 
her if she were alive and went on her knees to me.’ p 

“ This was the end. I stayed that miserable day, and then 
the Marquis sent me home. I told him I should tell my father 
our tempers were irreconcilable, his daughter's and mine. 

“ ‘ What! tell a lie about her?’ said the iron noble. ‘Tell the 
truth, my son, and retain my love.’ 

“ Well, that difficulty was solved for me. I reached home in 
a high fever, and it soon settled on my brain, and I was insensi- 
ble for weeks. 

‘ I recovered slowly, and it was many months ere I could 
walk. \h, fatal beauty! you nearly killed two men: the black- 
guard you adored with all those queenly airs of yours— a bullet 
grazed his skull and plowed his hair to the roots; and all through 
you the gentleman you despised lay at death’s door many a day.” 

Our friend the cure came in as these words were spoken. He 
looked very grave, and said that he must stay the night. Cath- 
erine was, he feared, a dying woman. She was asleep just now, 
but a sleep of utter exhaustion. 

My uncle was much concerned. He got up directly to go and 
see his faithful servant, and the story was interrupted again, as 
I had foreseen, and the conversation turned on poor Catherine 
and her humble virtues till my uncle returned, looking very 


THE PICTURE. 


51 


glum. Then Suzon came in, bearing a huge silver howl, and 
this was speedily filled with wine, sugar, and lemon, and spices 
— a delicious and fragrant compound. 

It was ladled out into our glasses, and under its influence I 
took courage, and implored the Count to finish tbe story. He 
consented at once, but said it would have little interest for me 
now, since the principal figure had disappeared. 

“I lay a long time between life and death, and even when I 
was out of danger my mind was confused and troubled. How- 
ever, by degrees I recovered a certain dogged calm of mind, 
and, indeed, since then I hare observed in other victims of the 
tender passion that a brain-fever from disappointed love either 
kills the body or cures the heart. 

“ My long and dangerous illness was followed by a period of 
bodily weakness, during which those about me seemed leagued 
together to know nothing about the family of De Groucy. No 
doubt they had their orders. 

“At last, one day, being* now stronger, I asked my father, 
with feigned composure, if he still corresponded with my dear 
friend the Marquis de Groucy. 

“ ‘Yes, my son,’ was his reply. ‘ He is in England. He has 
sold his property and emigrated. He came here on his way, and 
wept over you; but you did not know him.’ This made my tears 
flow. After a while I said, ‘ Father, she whom I loved so 
dearly — oh, father, I can bear anything now; tell me. Her own 
parent has abandoned her, but perhaps she has come to her 
senses, and only needs a friend to save her from that wretch.’ 

“ ‘ Gregoire,’ said my father, firmly, ‘be a man; forget that 
woman. She is not worth a thought. She has chosen her dung- 
hill; let her lie on it.’ Then, as I persisted in begging him to 
tell me something about her, he said, ‘ I will tell you this much: 
you have no betrothed, my poor friend has no daughter, and his 
noble race is extinct.’ 

“ After that I maintained a sort of sad and gloomy silence, 
and all those who really loved me flattered themselves I had 
forgotten her: but now, after so many years, I own to you. 
Monsieur Frederic, that her beauty and her voice and the love I 
had given her haunted me, aod were an obstacle to marriage, 
until celibacy became too fixed a habit. Even now, in the de- 
cline of life, my old heart thrilled at the sudden sight of her 
shadow there, the life-like image of one I loved too well.” 

This set us all gazing at the portrait, and the cure in partic- 
ular got up and examined it very closely, and with a puzzled 
air. 

But I still thirsted for more. “Surely,” said I, “ in the course 
of all these years you must have heard something more about 
her?” 

“ Not a word.” 

“Made some inquiries ?” 

“ None.” 

“ At least, sir, you know whether she is alive or dead?" 

“ No, I do not.” 

Then I began to bemoan my ill-fortune, “Oh, sir,” said 1, 


52 


THE PICTURE. 


“ when you began your beautiful story I felt sure I should hear 
all about her, and where she is now; but you lost sight of her 
when she was no older than I am, and there you drop the cur- 
tain, and all is dark. It is all over now; nobody will ever tell 
me the story of her life; nobody knows anything about her.” 

“You are mistaken,” said the cure, gravely. “I know a 
great deal about her.” 

“ Is it possible?”! cried, wild with excitement. “ Oh, how 
fortunate! Ah, my dear friend, tell us all you know.” 

“ Not so, Monsieur Frederic. I must not tell you what I know 
as her confessor and director, but I will tell you all that I have 
a right to tell. Alas! it is a short but terrible history. 

“ Well, then, for many years before I came here I had a cure 
on the other side of the mountains, and among my parishioners 
was a family of farmers called Flaubert. The head of it was a 
widow woman, who farmed a little freehold with great ability 
and keenness, and kept the house witjr strict economy. She had 
two sons and their wives under her roof. 

“The elder took after her, was prudent, laborious, and mar- 
ried a young woman who had a piece of land and a bit of money, 
and was also a managing woman. She had two children and no 
more. The other son was a young man spoiled early in life by 
his physical gifts. He was of colossal size, yet could run like a 
deer and dance like a faun; a first-rate shot, a poacher, and the 
champion wrestler of the district. Indeed, he was called ‘ the 
champion ’ even in his own family, and they were proud of him 
three or four times a year, when he brought home prizes from 
the fairs; the rest of the time they blushed for him. This young 
man’s wife was a person you could not fail to remark. Her 
figure was stately and erect; her carriage graceful. As to her 
face, it had not the bloom of youth and beauty which illumines 
that lovely picture. Seven years of peasant life and the hot sun 
of Provence had tanned her neck and arms, and a discontented 
mind, which never looked to religion for comfort, had imbitteied 
her very face. I remember that even then a deep line crossed 
her forehead, and her cheeks were hollow, compared with that 
plymp beauty, and her throat was not a smooth column like 
that. But, now I think of it, her hands, though brown with ex- 
posure, were shapely, and not like a peasant’s, and her eyes and 
eyebrows were really superb, and her forehead and face were 
white and smooth as ivory. Yes, I can just believe that this 
picture was like her in the flower of her youth. Only, as I said 
before, when I first saw her she was hardened by labor, bronzed 
by the sun, withered, as I now learn, by a father’s curse, and 
soured by infidelity. 

“The Flaubert family lived a quarter of a league from the 
village, and I saw the wife of Michel about, more than once, 
before I spoke to her. Her appearance and carriage were so 
striking that I made inquiries about her of the villagers with 
whom I had already made acquaintance. 

“‘Oh, the fair peasant!' said one. ‘The countess!’ said an- 
other, in coarse derision of her superior; and they told me she 
was the daughter of a red-hot aristo, who had fled to England 


THE PICTURE . 


53 


because she married a peasant for love. They gave me plenty 
of details, and you would smile if you heard the vulgar romances 
each narrator constructed on her true story, which, neverthe- 
less, was romantic enough. 

‘‘The widow and her eldest daughter attended mass, and I 
conversed with them. In due course I asked the widow if she 
had not another daughter-in-law. 

“The two women looked at each other and shrugged their 
shoulders. ‘Yes, I have, sir/ said the widow, ‘to my mis- 
fortune.’ 

“ ‘ Shall I not see her at mass ?’ 

“ ‘Let us hope not; for she would only come to yawn or to 
mock. She is a pagan. I believe, among her other qualities.’ 

“ ‘ Perhaps she attends to the home while you are out?’ 

“ ‘She attend to the home!’ and both women laughed heartily 
at the idea — so heartily that the younger thought it necessary to 
make an apology. The elder chimed in, and said, in the sly way 
of a Provencal peasant, 4 If her outside has interested Monsieur ie 
Cure, I can give him a picture of her at this moment. She is sitting 
over my fire, burning her petticoat, with her hands lolling by 
her sides, making useless embroidery, or else in a pure reverie. 
As for her household occupation, she is either letting the pot 
boil over or get cold. I could not swear which; but ’tis one or 
t’other.’ 

“Of course I checked these remarks, and lectured upon 
Christian charity. My discourse was received with respectful 
silence, but my hearers seemed turned into wood. 

“ Some days after this I was caught in a heavy rain, and the 
nearest shelter was the farm-house of the Flauberts. I knocked 
at the door: no notice was taken; I knocked again; a light foot- 
step, and the door was opened by Madame Michel. She did not 
receive me hospitably. She said, in broad Provencal, 4 There is 
nobody in the house.’ and she held the door in her hand. Then 
I tried her in French. ‘ Madame,’ said I, ‘ I am wet through, 
and if I could, without incommoding you ’ 

“ ‘ Do me the honor to come in/ said she, with perfect accent 
and the most graceful courtesy. She seated me by the fire, and 
we entered into conversation. I believe we conversed about 
trifles, and I could not help admiring her grace and courtesy, 
and the French language, the language of politeness, which had 
at once recalled her to her native good- breeding. She spoke it 
exquisitely, notwithstanding the little use she now made of it. 

“I forget all our small-talk; but I remember at last that she 
fixed her eyes full upon mine and, said, ‘ Monsieur, why did you 
speak to me in French T 

“ I answered her honestly, and with some emotion: ‘ Because, 
madame, I know your story from others ’ (her pale cheek colored 
at that), ‘ami, to be quite frank, I came here hoping, by my 
advice and authority, to make matters smoother and more 
pleasant in this house.’ 

“ ‘You would but waste your time/ said she. ‘ These people 
hate me with all their hearts, and I despise them with all my 
soul. Matters are come to such a pitch that we endure each 


54 


THE PICTURE 


other only because vve are about to part. My husband is heir to 
a small sum of money, and he has purchased a cottage and a 
few acres that are sold very cheap, belonging to an emigre. We 
shall do very well when we are alone.’ 

“ ‘ You have my best wishes,’ said I; ‘ but I am afraid you are 
too little accustomed to the hard life of a working farmer; and 
even your husband has never learned to dig and mow and labor 
like liis brother; his tastes appear to be for pastimes and games 
and ’ 

“ ‘You need not mince the matter,’ said she; ‘ he is lazy, and, 
worse still, he is fond of drinking and gambling. But it is all 
his mother’s fault, with her weak indulgence; and now she en- 
courages him to desert his home out of her jealousy of me. 
Once I get him away from this vile woman he will stay beside 
me, and lead an honest, industrious life, as I shall for his sake.’ 

“ I knew Michel was hardened in his ill habits, and that love 
could not convert him without religion. I thought it my duty 
to tell her so. The woman froze directly, and when I urged my 
views she encountered me with all the cold infidelity and satire 
of this unhappy age. She was armed at all points by Messieurs 
Yolney, D’Alembert, Voltaire, and others, and by her own self- 
confidence. So I told her I would not argue with her, but pray 
for her. 

“ ‘ Do you believe prayers are heard ?’ said she, ironically. 

“ I told her I thought earnest prayers were always heard, and 
sometimes granted. 

“ ‘Well,’ said she, ‘ the most earnest prayer I ever heard was 
when my own father cursed me and my "husband. Will God 
grant that ?’ 

‘Not against your soul,’ said I. 

“ She shrugged her shoulders, as much as to say the excep- 
tion was of very little value; and I left the house defeated and 
sad.” 

“ And I answer for it you kept your word, and prayed for 
this perverse creature,” said my uncle. 

“With all my heart and soul,” replied the good cure. 

He continued: 

“ The next time 1 saw her was one evening; the whole family 
was there except Michel. They all received me in a friendly man- 
ner, and gave me the place of honor at a long table, about which 
they were all seated, picking the shoots out of some damaged 
wheat for their own use. 

“ The eldest son entertained me with a voluble discourse about 
the markets, the price of grain; and all the time Michel’s wife 
sat with her feet at the fire, and her arms folded, and her head 
against the wall, in an attitude of sleepy disdain. 

“ But presently there was a whistle heard in the yard, and she 
started up, all animation. 

“ ‘ There he is!’ she cried and darted out of the door. She 
soon returned with ‘the champion,’ who greeted us all, in a 
loud, jovial voice, with blunt civility. 

“ ‘ Daughter-in-law,’ said her mother, ‘ serve your husband.’ 

“ Then she cut an enormous slice of bread, and ladled a large 


THE PICTURE. 


55 


basinful of soup out of the great pot. Unfortunately the pot 
had been taken off the fire to put on more wood, and the soup 
was lukewarm. The champion made a grimace. 

“ ‘ Cold weather outside and cold soup within,’ said he. This 
was not said harshly, but his mother fired up directly. 

“ * Saints in paradise!’ she cried, turning toward her obnoxious 
daughter-in-law. ‘ Is it possible that a woman can reach your 
years and not learn to keep her man’s soup hot against he comes 
home wet and hungry ?’ 

“The young woman just turned two haughty eyes upon her, 
and said, ‘ It’s nobody’s business if Michel does not complain.’ 
Then I, to make peace, said I feared that I was the person in 
fault, for I had moved the pot a little to warm my feet. 

“The champion — a good-humored fellow at bottom — stopped 
me, and said, ‘ Don’t let’s make a mountain of a mole-hill. The 
soup’s very good if it is a little cold, and it’s going to a warm 
place anyway;’ and with this he shoveled it rapidly down his 
throat. ‘The worst of it is,’ said he, ‘that my feet are wet 
through with the snow and the slush;' and he took off a pair of 
enormous shoes and threw them roughly toward his wife, and 
said. ‘ There, wife, put all that right for me.’ 

“The daughter of the Marquis de Groucy took her peasant 
lord’s shoes, bowed her head meekly over them, scraped the 
clay from them with a piece of stick, then wiped them with a 
damp cloth, then put some hot cinders inside, shook them out 
again, and brought the shoes to her master. He received them 
without a word of thanks. This gave me some pain, and I soon 
after took my leave. Michel’s wife, remembering, I suppose, the 
habits of her youth, accompanied me to the end of the court that 
lay before the door. I took this opportunity of saying that since 
she had learned to humble herself before a man, and do the duty 
of a wife so meekly, I felt sure she would some day learn to 
humble herself before God, who abaseth the proud and liftethup 
the lowly. 

“ What think you was the answer I received from this keen 
spirit, nursed upon the wit of Messieurs Volney, D’Alembert, 
and Voltaire? 

“ ‘ Monsieur,’ says she, ‘ there are cures who can only talk 
religion; there are some who can also talk reason; you are one 
of the happy few who can talk reason if you choose, for you 
have been a man of the world. If it is all the same to you, pray, 
when you do me the honor to converse with me, don’t talk re- 
ligion. talk sense.’ 

“‘I consent, madame,' said I, sorrowfully; ‘but you must 
permit me to pray for you.’ 

“ About a fortnight after this I met the champion. He was 
going to a neighboring fair dressed in his Sunday clothes. I 
asked him if he was going to compete for the prize for wrestling, 
as usual. He said: ‘ No; this time it’s more serious. My mother 
has at last paid me the eight hundred francs she has long prom- 
ised me, and I am going to buy a cottage and a bit of emigrant’s 
land— house and farm. There my wife and I shall keep house 
alone. The truth is. Monsieur le Cure ,’ said he, ‘ that the women 


THE PICTURE . 


56 


can’t agree nome: my mother despises my wife, and my wife 
hates my mother. We shall do better apart.’ 

“I had my doubts on that point, and thought both husband 
and wife equally unfitted for the labor and self-denial that lay 
before them; but I kept that to myself, and all I did was to 
warn this confident young man against the temptations of the 
fair. 

“ ‘ Have no fear,’ said j,he; and went away full of buoyant 
confidence. 

“ That very evening he called at my house, pale and agitated, 
and told me a different tale. He had been induced to gamble 
for a small sum, iu order, he said, to buy his wife a gold chain; 
he had lost it, and his wild endeavors to recover it by the same 
unlikely means had thrown away his little fortune. One virtue 
the poor fellow had — filial reverence. He told me, with tears 
in his eyes, of all his mother's goodness and self-denial, and he 
said that he couldn’t face her and tell her he had wasted in a 
day what had cost her four years to save. He spoke of leaving 
the country, and begged me to carry her his penitence and 
shame. I said, ‘ My son, I'll do better; 1 will take you to her, 
and show you the depth of a mother's love.’ 

“Well, at last I prevailed on him to come with me to the 
house, but he couldn’t be induced to come in until I had made 
his confession for him. As I expected, the mother said: ‘ Poor 
foolish boy! Just tell him to come in to his suprer; his mother's 
arms shall not be closed to him.’ So I brought him in. The 
others received him in grim silence, but the old woman merely 
said: ‘Why, Michel, it's a pity you had not more sense; but 
’tis your own money you have lost, and no one else has a right 
to complain. This house is always open to you.’ Then, finding 
his wife dead silent and terribly pale, he went to her to make 
his peace with her; but she started back from him, and said, 
‘Don’t you come near me, you vile prodigal and madman. 
You've condemned me to live all my life with these people, w-ho 
hate me, and I hate them with all my heart.’ As an outrageous 
quarrel was clearly impending, I withdrew; but something — I 
know not what — induced me to wait at a little distance, and 
pray for the peace of this ill-assorted couple. Alas! I had better 
have stayed; for, as I learned from the others, that angry wife 
reproached him and taunted him in her fury till he actually 
raised his huge hand and struck her on the face. 

“ She w r as stunned at first, I heard, but soon uttered a wild cry 
of anguish and frenzy, and catching up, with a woman’s strange 
intent, some embroidery she had been wmrking upon, she turned 
round and cursed them all. 

“ * Rot on your dunghill, all of you!’ she cried, and tore open 
the door and dashed out. 

Then the old woman cried, ‘ Mind, Michel, she will disgrace 
you!’ and he dashed after her. 

“Unluckily, she stumbled over something in the yard, and I 
saw the swift-footed champion overtake her, and seize her, and 
drag her back tow-ard the house. She screamed, she struggled, 
in vain; but at last, by a furious effort, she half freed herself 


THft PICT UR ft. 


5 ? 


for a moment, and I saw her lift her hand high, and then strike 
the man on the breast. At this moment I was coming forward 
to interfere. 

“ To my surprise the giant uttered a cry of dismay and stag- 
gered away from her, and burst headlong into the house. To be 
sure, the blow was furious, but it was only a woman’s hand that 
struck, and I saw no weapon in that hand. As for her, she 
rushed the other way, and I think would hare passed me with- 
out notice, but that I uttered an ejaculation of pity and con- 
cern; then she stopped and glared at me, and I must tell you 
that I then noticed something which Monsieur de Pontarlais 
has already drawn attention to — the whites of her eyes showed 
themselves to me in the moonlight with a strange and. I may 
say, a terrible expression— the expression of some infuriated 
wild animal. ‘ He struck me,’ she cried. ‘He struck me! the 
woman who gave up all for him, and braved a fathers curse. 
My curse and my father’s be on him and all his brood!’ With 
that she darted past me and disappeared. 

“After a momeut’s hesitation I felt it my duty to enter the 
house, and make some sort of endeavor, however hopeless, to 
repair the mischief; indeed, I was prepared to use all the au- 
thority my office gave me, and take part with great severity 
against this ruffian, and all the rest who, by their animosity, had 
paved the way for this abominable outrage. 

“Well, I went in at the open door; I found the champion 
leaning with his back against the wall, rolling his eyes as if in 
pain, and groaning loudly. The situation seemed to amuse his 
brother; at least, that person was jeering him for not being able 
to bring his wife back by force. ‘ You’ll win no more prizes for 
wrestling at the fair.’ 

“ ‘ No,’ said the colossus; ‘I’m done for;’ and with that, still 
groaning, he seemed to sink half down by the wall, and his hands 
grasped wildly at his breast. 

“ Then I looked, and saw something that began to give me a 
terrible misgiving. Being in his gala dress, he had on a white 
shirt, and in the middle of his ample bosom was something that 
had first looked like a very large stud or breastpin made of 
mother-of-pearl. 

“ Round this thing was a thin circle of red, fine as a hair, and 
this red circle I saw' enlarging. My experience in the army told 
me how serious this was, and I cried, ‘ Silence! the man is stab- 
bed, and is bleeding internally.’ As these words left my lips, 
the poor champion sunk to the ground, and gasped out once 
more, ‘ Je suis un homme perdu.' In a moment they were all 
around him, and after a few hurried words, with his mother’s 
consent I took on me to draw the weapon out from the wound. 
It was an instrument ladies used in that day for embroidery. I 
think they opened a passage for the needle with it. The whole- 
instrument was not four inches long, and the steel portion of it 
scarcely three inches; but a woman’s hand had driven it home so 
keenly that even a portion of the handle had entered the wound. 
When I withdrew this insignificant but fatal weapon the cham- 
pion gave a sigh of relief. He then ceased to bleed inwardly, 


58 


THE PICTURE. 


but immediately the blood spurted and poured out of him 
through that small aperture* All attempts to stanch it were 
vain, and, indeed, were useless, for his fate was to bleed to 
death either inwardly with pain or outwardly without pain. I 
told them all that very gravely, and as tenderly as I could. 
Then the poor wretches burst out into imprecations on the 
woman that hud brought him to that. Then I put on for the 
first time the authority of the Church. I took out my crucifix, 
and I ordered them all, even the mother who bore him, from 
the room. That grand body, so full of blood, of strength, and 
youth, resisted long the fatal drain, and God gave me time to do 
His work. The dying man confessed his sins: he owned the 
justice of this fatal blow, since lie had raised his hand against 
the weak creature he had vowed to protect and cherish; he 
blessed his mother and his brother, and forgave his wife. Then I 
gave him absolution with all my heart and conscience, and he 
died in peace. 

“ Ah, my friends, who that had seen this could pride himself 
on youth and superior strength? Here was the champion of all 
those parts lying on his own floor surrounded by the jugs and 
mugs and plates he had won by conquering the other Samsons 
of the district, felled by a woman’s hand, armed with a bare 
bodkin. 

“ I spare you, my friends, the mother’s agony and all the sor- 
row of the house — sorrow that didn’t soften the hatred, and 
that you cannot wonder at. They set the emissaries of jus- 
tice upon the culprit’s track, and she w>as easily found; for no 
sooner did she hear the fatal news than she gave herself up to 
the law. She w j as tried at Marseilles, and it’s a wonder to me 
that my good friend here does not remember that trial, for it 
caused no little sensation at the time. The friends of the de- 
ceased, and the mother especially, urged the prosecution with 
the utmost bitterness. The old woman, indeed, said that noth- 
ing could console her for the loss of her son but to see the mur- 
deress’s head roll in the basket of the executioner. I w r as at the 
trial, and I remember little of it except the few T words spoken 
by the accused; those words seemed somehow T graven in my 
memory. She wore a peasant’s dress, but her demeanor was 
that of a noble; she w^as depressed, but dignified and patient; 
never interrupted and never complained. When her time came 
to speak in her defense, she said: 

“ ‘ Citizens, the public accuser has told you I killed my 
husband, and that, alasl is too true; but he has told you I killed 
him maliciously, and there he i3 quite mistaken. My husband 
was mv all. I gave up father, friends, rank, wealth, every- 
thing, for him, and I loved him dearly. He gave me a bitter 
provocation, and I reproached him cruelly. Then he struck me 
barbarously. What did 1 do? Did I seize some deadly weapon 
and strike him in return ? No. I merely fled, and if he had let 
me escape, this calamity would never have occurred. But he 
caught me and seized me, and was dragging me back to a house 
where every man and woman was my enemy. My passion w r as 
great, I admit, but my fear was greater, and in fear I struck, not 


THE PICTURE. 


59 


malice. Did I seek some deadly weapon ? No; I struck with 
what was in my hand, scarcely knowing at the time what was 
in my hand. I believe that when the weak are attacked with 
overpowering strength, they are permitted to make matters 
equal with some weapon. But can you call that puny instru- 
ment of woman’s art a weapon ? Was ever a strong man slain 
with such a thing before? My husband died bv the finger of 
God; I was the unhappy instrument: and I am his truest 
mourner, and shall mourn him when all else have forgotten 
him. Even his mother has another son, but he was my all in 
this world. I say these things because they are the truth, not 
toavert punishment. How can you punish me ? Imprisonment 
cannot add to my misery, and death would end it. Therefore I 
ask no mercy: be just.’ 

“Before these words, and their sad and noble delivery, the 
charge of willful homicide dissolved away. The prisoner was 
condemned to two years’ seclusion in a religious house. 

“I visited there many times, and found her a changed 
woman. Her heart was broken and contrite; she wept for hours 
together, and in time she found consolation. Great was now 
her humility. When she regained her liberty I became her di 
rector. 

“The penance I inflicted was — obscurity. For many years 
she has gained her own living under another name, and never 
revealed the story of her life. Some people say, with a sneer, 
‘ The greater the sinner, the greater the saint.’ But there is 
truth in it. Men can go on sinning within certain bounds all 
their lives, and not feel themselves sinners; but when they com- 
mit a crime, the world helps them to undeceive themselves, and 
penitence enters when self-deception retires. That criminal has 
long been a truly pious woman, humble, industrious, faithful, 
self-denying, and full of Christian charity. On earth she is 
obscure by choice; but methinks her seat will be high in 
heaven.” 

The good cure’s words melted us all; and now we all desired 
to know her in her humble condition and alleviate her lot. 

But the cure would not hear of it. “ No,” said he. “ This is a 
secret of the confessional. She is vowed to obscurity, and she 
must persevere to the end. But if you, Monsieur de Pontarlais, 
can forgive her the pain she once caused you, that would be a 
comfort to her.” 

“Ah! poor soul, with all my heart,” cried he, and put his 
handkerchief to his eyes. 

After this narrative and these reflections we none of us felt 
disposed for small talk, and we soon retired to bed, all but the 
good cure, who was summoned hastily to Catherine’s bedside by 
Suzon. That night the house seemed to me strangely unquiet; I 
was awakened several times by hurrying to and fro. But sleep 
soon comes again to careless youth. In the morning I found 
Suzon in tears, ^and my uncle himself very sad; the faithful 
Catherine was dead. 

After breakfast the cure requested us to witness the official 
document he had to prepare on that melancholy occasion. He 


eo 


THE PICTURE . 


handed it to us with this remark: “ The confessional has no se- 
crets now.” Judge my surprise when I read these words: 
“Died, the 10th day of July. 1821, of general prostration, Irene 
de Groucy, widow of Michel Flaubert.” 

***** -it * 

My uncle took the picture down. “ I prefer,” said he, “ to 
think of my poor faithful Catherine as she was.” I was of the 
name mind. But when my dear uncle died, and it became my 
own. I hung it again in a room I frequented but little. 

Lately, in the decline of my own life, drawing nearer to that 
place where beautiful souls shall be highest, I have given the 
once loved picture a place of honor. Being so strange a remi- 
niscence of my youth, I think sometimes of poor Catherine view- 
ing her own picture with such grace, dignity, and pious humil- 
ity; and I expect to find that white-robed saint more beautiful 
by far than the picture which so fascinated me. 


[the end.] 


TIT FOR TAT 


By CHARLES READE. 


CHAPTER I. 

It was a glaring afternoon in the short but fiery Russian sum- 
mer. Two live pictures, one warm, one very cool, lay side by 
side. 

A band Of fifty peasant girls, in bright spotted tunics, snow- 
white leggings, and turban handkerchiefs, blue, crimson, or yel- 
low, moved in line across the pale green grass, and plied their 
white rakes with the free, broad, supple, and graceful move- 
ments of women whom no corset had ever confined or stiffened. 

Close by this streak of vivid color, moving in afternoon haze 
of potable gold over gentle green, stood a grove of ancient birch- 
trees with great smooth silver stems; a cool brook babbled along 
in the deep shade; and on the carpet of green mosses, and among 
the silver columns, sat a lady with noble but hardish features, 
in a gray dress and a dark brown hood. Her attendant, a girl 
of thirteen, sparkled apart in pale blue, seated on the ground, 
nursing the lady’s guitar. 

This was the tamer picture of the two, yet, on paper, the 
more important, for the lady was, and is, a remarkable woman — 
Anna Petrovna Staropolsky, a true Russian aristocrat, ennobled, 
not by the breath of any modern ruler, but by antiquity, local 
sovereignty, and the land she and hers had held and governed 
for a thousand years. 

It may throw some light upon her character to present her 
before and after the emancipation of her slaves. 

Her family had never maltreated serfig within the memory of 
man, and she inherited their humanity. 

For all that, she was very haughty. But then her towering 
pride was balanced by two virtues and one foible. She had a 
feminine detestation of violence — would not allow a horse to be 
whipped, far less a man or a woman. She was a wonderfully just 
woman, and, to come to her foible, she was fanatica per la 
musica , or, if aught so vulgar and strong as English may intrude 
into a joyous science whose terms are Italian, music mad. 

This was so well known all over her vast estates that her serfs, 
if they wanted new isbahs — alias log-huts — a new peal of forty 
church bells, mounting by perfect gradation from a muffin-man’s 


«2 


TIT FOR TAT. 


up to a deaving dome of bell metal, or, in short, any unusual 
favor, would get the priests or the deacons to versify their peti- 
tion, and send it to the lady, with a solo, a quartette, and a lit- 
tle chorus. The following sequence of events could then be 
counted on. They would sing their prayer at her; she would 
listen politely, with a few winces; she would then ignore “the 
verbiage,’’ as that intellectual oddity, the public singer, calls it, 
and fall tooth and nail upon the musical composition, correcting 
it a little peevishly. This done, she would proceed to their in- 
terpretation of their own music. “ Let us read it right, such 
as it is,” was her favorite formula. 

When she had licked the tiling into grammar and interpreta- 
tion, her hard features used to modify so, she seemed another 
woman. Then a canny moujik, appointed beforehand to watch 
her countenance, would revert for a moment to “ the verbiage.” 

“Oh, as to that ” the lady would say, and concede the sub- 

stantial favor with comparative indifference. 

When the edict of emancipation came, and disarmed cruel 
proprietors, but took no substantial benefit from her without a 
full equivalent, she made a progress through her estates, and 
convened her people. She read and explained the ukase and the 
compensatory clauses, and showed them she could make the 
change difficult and disagreeable to them in detail. “ But,” said 
she, “ I shall do nothing of the kind. I shall exact no impossi- 
ble purchases nor crippling compensations from you. Our father 
the Emperor takes nothing from me that I value, and he gives 
me good money, bearing five per cent, for indifferent land that 
brought me one per cent clear. He has relieved me of your 
taxes, your lawsuits, and your empty cupboards, and given me 
a good bargain, you a bad one. So let us settle matters before- 
hand. If you can make your fortunes with ten acres per house, 
in spite of taxes, increasing mouths, laziness, and your beloved 
corn-brandy, why, I give you leave to look down on Anna Pe- 
trovna, for she is your inferior in talent, and talent governs the 
world nowadays. But if you find Independence, and farms the 
size of my garden, mean Poverty now, and, when mouths mul- 
tiply, Hunger, then you can come to Anna Petrovna, just as you 
used, and we will share the good Emperor’s five per ceuts.” 

She was as good as her word, and made the change easy by 
private contracts in the spirit of the enactment, but more 
lenient to the serfs than its literal clauses. 

By these means, and the accumulated respect of ages, she re- 
tained all the power and influence she cared for, and this brings 
me fairly to my summer picture. Those fifty peasant girls w T ere 
enfranchised serfs who would not have put their hands to a rake 
for any other proprietor thereabouts. Yet they were working 
with a good heart for Anna Petrovna at fourpence per dav, and 
singing like mavises as they marched. Catinka Kusminofir sang 
on the left of the band, Dana Solovieff on the right. 

They were now commencing the last drift of the whole field, 
and would soon sweep the edge of the grove, where Madame 
Staropolsky — as we English should call her — sat pale and list- 
less. She was a widow, and her only son had betrayed symp- 


TIT FOR TAT. 


63 


toms of heart-disease. Sad reminiscences clouded those lofty but 
somewhat angular features, and she looked gloomy, hard, and 
severe. 

But it so happened that as the band of women came along- 
side this grove, which bounded the garden from the fields, Daria 
Solovieff took up the song with marvelous power and sweetness. 
She was all unconscious of a refined listener: it was out-of-doors, 
she was leading the whole band, and she sang out from a chest 
and frame whose free play had never been confined by stays, 
and with a superb voice, all power, volume, roundness, sweet- 
ness, bell-like clearness, and that sympathetic eloquence which 
pierces and thrills the heart. 

In most parts of Europe this superb organ would have sung 
out in church, and been famous for miles around. But the 
Russians are still in some things Oriental; only men and boys 
must sing their anthems; so the greatest voice in the district 
was unknown to the greatest musician. She stood up from her 
seat and actually trembled — for she w*as Daria's counterpart, or- 
ganized as finely to hear and feel as Daria to sing. The lady’s 
lofty but hardish features seemed to soften all their outlines as 
she listened, a complacent, mild, and rapt expression overspread 
them, her clear gray eyes moistened, melted, and deepened, and 
lo! she was beautiful! 

She crept along the grove, listening, and when the sound re- 
tired, directed her little servant to follow the band and invite 
Daria to come and help her prune roses next day. 

The invitation was accepted with joy, for the work was pleas- 
ant, and the remuneration for working in Anna Petrovna’s gar- 
den was not money, but some article of female dress or orna- 
ment. It might be only a ribbon or a cotton handkerchief, but 
even then it would be worth more than a woman’s wage, and 
please her ten times more: the contemplation of a chiffon is a 
sacred joy, the feel of fourpence a mere human satisfaction. 

So the next day came Daria, a tall, lithe, broad-shouldered 
lass, very fair, with hair like a new sovereign — pardon, O race 
Sclavonic, my British similes! marvelous white skin, and color 
like a delicate white rose, eyes of deep violet, and teeth incredi- 
bly white and even. 

When she went amongst the flowers she just seemed to be one 
of them. 

The lady of the house came out to her with gauntlets and scis- 
sors, and a servant and a gig umbrella, whereat the child of na- 
ture smiled, and revealed much ivory. 

Madame snipped off dead roses along with her for nearly half 
an hour, then observed, “This is a waste of time. Come under 
that tree with me. Now sing me that song you sang yesterday 
in the field.” 

The fair cheek was dyed with blushes directly. “ Me sing be- 
fore you, Anna Petrovna!” 

“ Why not ? Come, Daria, do not be afraid of one old woman 
who loves music, and can appreciate you better than most. Sing 
to me, my little pigeon,” 


64 


TIT FOR TAT, \ 


The timid dove, thus encouraged, fixed her eyes steadily on 
the ground and cooed a little song. 

The tears stood in the lady’s eves. “ You are frightened still, 
said she; “but why? See, I do not praise you, and I weep. 
That is the best comment. You will not always be afraid of 
me.” 

“ Oh no; you are so kind.” 

Daria’s shyness was soon overcome, and every other day she 
had to come and play at gardening a bit, then work at music. 

When the winter" came her patroness could not- do without 
her. She sent for old Kyril, Daria's father, and offered to adopt 
her. He did not seem charmed; said she was his only daugh- 
ter, and he should miss her. 

“ Why, you will marry her, and so lose her,” said madame. 

He admitted that was the custom. “ The go-between ar- 
ranges a match, and one daughter after another leaves the nest. 
But I have only this one, and she is industrious, and a song- 
bird; and I have forbidden the house to all these old women 
who yoke couples together blindfold. To be sure, there is a 
young fellow, a cousin of mine, comes over from the town on 
Sundays and brings Daria flowers, and me a flask of vodka.” 

“ Then he is welcome to one of you?” 

“ As snow to sledge- horses; but Daria gives him little encour- 
agement. She puts up with him, that is all.” 

“You would like a good house, and fifty acres more than the 
ten a bountiful State bestows on you, rent free forever.” 

“Forgive me for contradicting you, Anna Petrovna; I should 
like them extremely.” 

“ And I should like to adopt Daria.” 

The tender father altered his tone directly. “ Anna Petrovna, 
it is not our custom to refuse you anything.” 

“And it is not your custom to lose anything by obliging 
me.” 

“ That is well known.” 

After this, of course, the parties soon came to an understand- 
ing. 

Daria was to be adopted, and some land and a house made 
over to her and her father as joint proprietors during his life- 
time, to Daria after his decease. 

Daria, during her father’s lifetime, was to live with Madame 
Staropolsky as a sort of humble but valued companion. 

When it was all settled, the only one of the three who had a 
misgiving was the promoter. 

“ This song-bird,” said she to herself, “ has already too much 
power over me. How will it be when she is a woman? Her 
voice bewitches me. She has no need to sing; if she but speaks 
she enobants me. Have I brought my mistress into the house?” 
This presentiment flashed through her mind, but did not abide 
at that time. 

One Sunday she saw Daria strolling along the road with a 
young man. He parted with her at the door, but was a long 
time doing it, and gave her some flowers, and lingered and 
looked after her, 


TIT FOR TAT. 


85 


Anna Petrovna felt a twinge, and the next moment blushed 
for herself, “What! jealous!” said she. “ The girl has certain- 
ly bewitched me.” 

She asked Daria, carelessly, who the young man was. Daria 
made no secret of the matter. “ It is only Ivan Ulitch Koscko, 
who comes many miles every Sunday.” 

“ To court you ?” 

“ I suppose it is.” 

“ Does he love you T* 

“ He says so.” 

“ Do you love him ?” 

“Not much; but he is very good.” 

“ Is he to marry you ?” 

“ I don’t know. I would rather be as I am.” 

“ I wonder which you love best — that young man or me?” 

“I could never love a young man as I love you, Anna 
Petrovna. It is quite different.” 

Madame Staropolsky looked keenly at her to see whether this 
was audacious humbug or pure innocence, and it appeared to be 
the latter; so she embraced her warmly. Then Daria, who did 
not lack intelligence, said; “If you wish it, I will ask Ivan 
Ulitch not to come again.” 

This would have been agreeable to Madame Staropolsky, but 
her sense of justice stepped in. “ No,” said she; “ 1 will inter- 
fere with no prior claims.” 

This lady played the violin in tune; the violoncello sonorously, 
not snorously; the piano finely; and the harp to perfection. 

She soon enlarged her pupil’s musical knowledge greatly, but 
was careful not to alter her style, which indeed was wonderfully 
natural, and full of genius. She also instructed her in history, 
languages, and arithmetic, and seemed to grow younger now 
she had something young to teach. 

Christmas came, and her son Alexis was expected, his educa- 
tion at St. Petersburg being finished. Until this year he had 
not visited these parts for some time. His mother used to go to 
the capital to spend the winter vacation with him there; the 
summer at Tsarskoe. But there was a famous portrait of him 
at seven years of age — a lovely boy, with hair like new-bur- 
nished copper, but wonderful dark eyes and brows, his dress a 
tunic and trousers of purple silk, the latter tucked into Welling- 
ton boots, purple cap, with a short peacock’s feather. We have 
Gainsborough’s blue boy, but really this might be called the 
Russian purple boy. A wonder-striking picture of a beautiful 
original. 

Daria had often stood before this purple boy, and wondered at 
his beauty. She even thought it was a pity such an angel should 
ever grow up, and deteriorate into a man. 

The sledge was sent ten miles to meet Alexis, and whilst he 
was yet three miles distant the tinkling of the bells announced 
him. On he came, at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, with 
three horses — a powerful black trotter in the middle, and two 
galloping bays, one on each side, all three with tails to stuff a 
sofa and manes like lions. Everybody in the villege turned out 


66 


TIT FOR f MT. 


to welcome him; every dog left his occupation and followed him 
on the spot; the sledge dashed up to the front veranda, the ready 
doors flew open, the family were all in the hall, ready with a 
loving welcome; and the thirty village dogs, having been now 
and then flogged for their hospitality, stood aloof in a semicircle, 
and were blissful with excitement, and barked sympathetic and 
loud. When the mother locked the son in her arms the tears 
stood in Daria’s eyes; but bhe was disappointed in his looks, after 
the picture; to be sure, he was muffled to the nose in furs, and 
his breath, frozen flying, had turned his mustache and eyebrows 
into snow. Beard he had none, or he might have passed for 
Father Christmas — and he was only twenty. 

But in the evening he was half as big, and three times as hand- 
some. 

His mother made Daria sing to him, and he \yas enraptured. 

He gazed on her all the time with two glorious black eyes, and 
stealing a glance at him, as women will, she found him, like his 
mother, beautified by her own enchantment, and he seemed to 
resemble his portrait more and more. 

From that first night he could hardly take his eyes off her. 
These grand orbs, always dwelling on her, troubled her heart 
and her senses, and by degrees elicited timid glances in return. 
These and the seductions of her voice completed his conquest, 
and he fell passionately in love with her. She saw and returned 
his love, but tried innocent artifices to conceal it. Her heart 
was in a tumult. Hitherto she had been as cool as a cucumber 
with Ivan and every other young man, and wondered what 
young women could see so attractive in them. Now she was 
caught herself, and fluttered like a wild bird suddenly caged. 

Ivan Ulitch Koscko, who could not make her love him, used 
to console himself for her coolness by saying it w r as her nature 
— a cool affection and moderate esteem was all she had to give 
to any man. So many an endured lover talks; but suddenly the 
right man comes, and straightway the icy Hecla reveals her in- 
finite fires. 

Alexis soon found an opportunity to tell Daria he adored her. 1 

She panted with happiness first, and hid her blushing face, but 
the next moment she quivered with alarms. 

“ Oh, no, no,” she murmured, “you must not! What have I 
done? Your mother — she would never forgive me. It was not 
to steal her son’s heart she brought me here.” And the inno- 
cent girl was all misgivings, and began to cry. 

Alexis consoled her, and kissed her tears away, and would not 
part with her till she smiled again, and interchanged vows of 
love and constancy with him. 

Under love’s potent influence she left him radiant. 

But when she thought it all over, and him no longer there to 
overpower her, her misgivings grew, and she was terrified. She 
had an insight into character, and saw beneath the surface of 
Anna Petrovna. That lady loved her, but would hate her if she 
stole the affections of her son, her idol. 

Daria’s deep eyes fixed themselves all of a sudden on the 
future. “ Misfortune is coming here,” she said. 


TIT FOR TAT. 6? 

Then she crossed herself, bowed her head piously in that atti- 
tude, and prayed long and earnestly. 

Then she rose, and went straight to Anna Petrovna. She 
found her knitting mittens for Alexis. 

She sat at her feet, and said wearily, “ Anna Petrovna, I ask 
leave to go home.” * 

“ Why, what is the matter?” 

“ My father.” 

“ Is he unwell ?” 

“ No. But he has not seen me for some time.” 

“ Is it for long ?” 

“Not very long.” 

Anna Petrovna eyed her steadily. “ Perhaps you are like me, 
of a jealous disposition in your little quiet way. Tell me the 
truth, now, my pigeon, you are jealous of Alosha.” 

“ Me jealous of Alexis?” 

“Oh, jealousy spares neither age nor sex. Come, vou are — 
just a little. Confess now.” 

Daria was surprised; but she wassilent’at first; and then, being 
terribly afraid lest one so shrewd should discover her real senti- 
ments, she had the tact and the self-defensive subtlety to defend 
herself so tamely against this charge that she left the impression 
but little disturbed. 

Anna Petrovna determined to cure her by kindness, so she 
said, “ Well, you shall go next week. But to-day we expect 
our cousin Vladimir Alexeitch Plutitzin on a short visit. He 
is musical, and I cannot afford to part with you whilst he is 
here.” 

“Then Daria’s heart bounded with delight. She had tried to 
go away, but was forcibly detained in paradise. 

Vladimir Alexeitch Plutitzin arrived — a keen, dark gentleman, 
forty years old, and a thorough man of the world; a gamester 
and a roue, bully or parasite, whichever suited his purpose; but 
most agreeable on the surface, and welcome to Madame Staro- 
polsky on that account and his relationship. He seemed so 
shallow she had never taken the trouble to look into him. 

His principal object in this visit was to borrow money, and as 
he could not do that all in a moment, he looked forward to a 
tedious visit. 

But this fair singer made all the difference. He was charmed 
with her, and began to pay her attentions in the drollest way, 
half spooney, half condescending. He was very pertinacious, 
and Daria was rather offended, and a little disgusted. But all 
she showed was complete coolness and civil apathy. 

Vladimir Alexeitch, having plenty of vanity and experience, 
did not accept this as Ivan did. “ This cucumber is in love with 
somebody,” said he; and he looked out very sharp. He saw at 
once that Alexis was wrapped up in her, but that she was rather 
shy of him, and on her guard. That puzzled him a little. 
However, one Sunday he detected her talking with a young man 
under the front veranda. It was not love-making after the 
manner of Vladimir Alexeitch, but they seemed familiar and 
confidential: clearly he was the man. 


G8 


TIT FOR TAT. 


Vladimir burned with spite; and he wreaked it. He went ink 
the drawing-room, and there he found Alexis and his mother 
seated apart. So he began upon Alexis. He said to him, too low 
for his mother to hear, “ So our cantatrice has a lover.” 

“ Alexis stared, then changed color, “ Daria a lover — who?” 
He thought at first his own passion had been discovered by this 
shrewd person. 

“ Oh, that is more than I can tell you. Some fellow of her 
own class, though. He is courting her at this moment.” 

Alexis turned ashy pale, and his lips blue. “I’ll believe that 
when I see it,” said he, stoutly. 

“ See it, then, in the veranda,” was the calm reply. 

With that the serpent glided on to the mother. 

Alexis waited a moment, and then sauntered out, with a 
ghastly attempt at indifference. 

Once in the hall, he darted to the door, opened it, and found 
Daria and her faithful Ivan in calm conversation. The sight of 
the young man was enough for Alexis. He said, angrily, 
“ Daria, my mother wants you immediately.” 

“ Farewell, then, Ivan,” said Daria, submissively, and entered 
the house at once. Alexis stood and cast a haughty stare on 
Ivan ; and the poor fellow wdio had walked ten miles for a word 
or two with Daria, returned disappointed. 


CHAPTER II. 

Meantime Anna Petrovna asked Vladimir Alexeitch what he 
had said to Alexis. “ Oh, nothing particular; only that our fair 
cantatrice had a lover.” 

“Why, that is no news,” said the lady. “But indeed he is 
not much of a lover, and I hope it will come to nothing. That 
is very selfish, for he is an old friend and a faithful one to her. 
His mother kept the district school at Griasansk, and taught 
Daria to read and write and work. Her son is a notary’s clerk, 
and assisted her in her learning. Let me tell you she is a very 
fair scholar, not an ignorant savage like the rest of these girls. 
To be sure, her father has a head on his shoulders, and had sent 
her to school, contrary to the custom of the country.” 

That favorite topic of hers, the praises of her protegee , was 
cut unnaturally short by Daria in person. She came in, and 
gliding up to her patroness with a sweet inclination of her 
whole body, said, “ You sent for me, Anna Petrovna. Alexis 
Pavlovitchtold me.” 

“Indeed! Then ha, divined my thought. But I did not send 
for you; I heard your friend was with you.” 

“ He was.” 

“ What have you done with him?” 

“ I told him to go.” 

“That you might come to me?’ 

“ Certainly.” 

“ That was rather hard upon him.” 

“ It does not matter,” said Daria, composedly. 


TIT FOR TAT . 


69 


“ Not to you, Daria; that is evident.” 

Alexis came in, and flung himself into a chair, manifestly 
discomposed. Daria cast a swift glance at him, then looked 
down. 

Anna Petrovna surprised this lightning glance and looked at 
her son, and then at Vladimir; then she turned her eyes inward, 
mystified and inquiring, and from that hour seemed to brood 
occasionally, and her features to stiffen. 

Vladimir watched his poison work. Some days afterward he 
joked Alexis about his passion for a girl who was already pro- 
vided with a lover, but found him inaccessible to jealousy. The 
truth is, he and Daria had come to an explanation. “She 
loves nobody but me,” said the young man proudly; “ and no 
other man but me shall ever have her; not even you, my clever 
cousin.” 

“ Oh, I make way for the head of the house, as in duty bound,” 
said sneering Vladimir. “But when you have got her all to 
yourself what do you mean to do with her? I am afraid, 
Alexis, she will get you into trouble. Her people are respectable. 
Your mother's morals are severe. She is attached to the girl. 
What on earth can you do with her ?” 

“ I mean to marry her, if she will have me.” 

“Do what?” 

“ Marry her, man. What else can I do?” 

Vladimir was incredulous, and amused at first; then taking a 
survey of the young man’s face, he saw there the iron resolution 
that he had observed in the boy’s mother. He looked aghast. 
Alexis marry this blooming peasant — a woman of another race, 
a child of nature! She would fill that sterile house with chil- 
dren, and he would die the beggar that he was. Vladimir did 
not speak all at once. At last he said, “ You cannot; you are 
not of age.” 

“ I shall be soon.” 

“ Your mother would never consent.” 

“ I fear not.” 

“Well, then ” 

“I shall marry Daria.” 

When Alexis said this, and looked him full in the face, Vladi- 
mir turned his cold, pale, Tartar eye away, and desperate 
thoughts flashed across him. Indeed, he felt capable of assas- 
sination. But prudence and the cunning of his breed suggested 
crafty measures first. 

He controlled himself with a powerful effort, and said, quiet- 
ly, “Such a marriage would break your mother’s heart; and she 
has been a good friend to me. I cannot abet you in it. But I 
am sorry I treated a serious matter with levity.” 

Then he left him, and bis brain went to work in earnest. 

The truth is that a more dangerous man than Vladimir Alex- 
eitch Plutitzin never entered an honest house. Crafty and selfish 
by nature, he was also by tbis time practically versed in wiles; 
and his great expectations should Alexis die without issue, and 
his present ruin, made him think little of crime, though not of 
detection. 


70 


TIT FOR TAT. 


He was too cunning to go and tell Anna Petrovna all at once, 
and so reveal the mischief -maker to Alexis. He was silent days 
and days, but went into brown-studies before Anna Petrovna, 
to attract her attention. He succeeded. She began to watch 
him as w T ell as her son; and at last she said to him one day, 
“ There is something mysterious going on in this house, Vlad- 
imir.” 

“ Ah, you have discovered it?’ 

“I have discovered there is something. What is it, if you 
please ?’ 

“ I do not like to tell you; and yet I ought, for you have been 
a good friend to me, and if I do not warn you, you will perhaps 
doubt my regard. I don’t know what to do.” 

“ Shall I help you? Alexis and Daria!” 

“ There, then, you have seen it.” 

“I see he is extasie with her, and no wonder, since I am. 
Luckily she has too much good sense.” 

“ Anna Petrovna, my dear kinswoman and benefactress, it is 
my duty to undeceive you. She is more timid and more dis- 
creet, because she is a woman; but she is just as much in love. 
It is a passionate attachment on both sides, and — how shall I 
tell you ? — marriage is to be the end of it!” 

“ Marriage! My son — and my serf!” 

“Serfs exist no more. We are all ladies and gentlemen, 
thanks to God and the Czar.” 

Anna Petrovna turned pale, and her features hard as iron. 
“Viper,” said she, not violently, but sadly. Then her breath 
came short, and she could not speak. 

But after a little while this just woman half recanted. “ No,” 
said she, “I had no right to say that. She sought me not; 1 
brought her into this house, and she was a treasure to me. 1 
brought him into the house, and she saw her danger, and asked 
leave to go. But I, who ought to have been wiser than she, had 
no forethought. I have made my own trouble, and it is for me 
to mend it. There shall be no discussion on this subject. You 
must not let Alexis know you have spoken to me, nor shall I 
speak to him.” 

Vladimir consented eagerly. It was not his game to quarrel 
with Alexis. 

That very afternoon Madame Staropolsky said to Daria, 
“ Daria, my little soul, you were right and I was wrong; you 
shall visit your father this afternoon.” 

Daria turned red and white by turns, and acquiesced, trem- 
bling at what this might mean. Two maids were sent to assist 
her in packing. That gave her no chance of delay. 

In one hour a large sledge came round, filled with presents for 
her father. Anna Petrovna blessed her fervently, but with a 
feminine distinction kissed her coldly, enveloped her in rich 
furs, and packed her off sans ceremonie. She dashed over the 
hard snow for a mile or two, then through the village, sore 
envied, and followed by each cur, and at last landed triumph- 
antly at her own farm and her father’s, warmly welcomed, ad- 


TIT FOR TAT. 71 

mired, and barked after; only the tears trickled down her 
cheeks from the door she quitted to the door she reached. 
******* 

That evening the house looked blank. Everybody missed 
Daria, and Alexis kept looking at the door for her. At last he 
asked, with indifference ill- feigned, what had become of her. 

“Oh,” said his mother, “she has gone home. She wished to 
go last month, but I detained her. I wished you so to hear her 
sing.” 

She then turned the conversation adroitly and resolutely. 

But Alexis as resolutely declined to utter anything but mono- 
syllables. He could conceal neither his anger nor his unhappi - 
ness. He avoided the house except at meals, yawned in Vlad- 
imir’s face, aud even in his mother’s, and once, when she asked 
tenderly why he was so dull, replied that the house had lost its 
sunshine and its music. 

This was a cruel stab to Anna Petrovna. She replied, grimly, 
“Then we will go to Petersburg earlier than usual, dear.” 

One day he cleared up and became as charming as ever. 

Anna Petrovna, whose mother’s heart had yearned for him, 
was comforted, and said to Vladimir, “ Ah, youth soon forgets. 
Dear Alexis has come to his senses and recovered his spirits.” 

“So I see,” was the reply. “But I do not interpret that as 
you do. I take it for granted he sees the girl every day.” 

“ What!” said Madame Staropolsky, “under her father’s roof ? 
He would not wrong me so, after all I have done for him. But 
I should like to know.” 

Artful Vladimir took her hand tenderly. “ I don’t like spy- 
ing on Alexis, but you have a right to know, and you shall 
know.” 

She pressed his hand gratefully, then left him, with a deep 
maternal sigh. 

In a few days he made her his report. Alexis rode straight to 
the farm every day, and spent hours with Daria. Her father 
encouraged him, and indeed ordered the girl to receive him as 
her betrothed lover. 

The mother’s features set themselves like iron, but she uttered 
no impatient word this time. She just directed her servants to 
pack for Petersburg. 

When Alexis heard this he said he should prefer to stay be- 
hind until the full summer. 

‘ No, my son,” said Madame Staropolsky, calmly; “ you must 
not abandon me altogether. If I have lost your affection, I re- 
tain my authority.” 

“So be it; I must obey,” said he, doggedly. “Iam not of 
age. I shall be soon, though, thank Heaven!” 

The iron pierced through the mother’s heart. She winced, but 
she did not deign to speak. 

That evening Alexis did not come home to dinner. He arrived 
about ten o’clock, with his eyes red and swollen, would take 
nothing but a glass of tea, and go to bed. 

At the sight of his inoffensive sorrow the mother’s bowels be- 
gan to yearn over her son. “ Oh, my friend,” said she to her 


TIT bOR TAT. 


worst enemy, “ what shall I do? He will not live long.” Vladi- 
mir pricked up his ears at that. “ Aneurism of the heart — very 
slight at present, but progressive. Why poison his short life ? 
She is virtuous. It is only her birth. I am a miserable mother.” 

Her crafty counselor trembled, but his cunning did not desert 
him. 

“ And I can’t bear to see you weep,” said he. “ Yes, try the 
capital and its female attractions, and if they fail, let him marry 
his enfranchised serf, and found a plebeian iine. I would rather 
endure that shame than see you and him really unhappy. But 
if you only knew how many of these unfortunate attachments 
I have seen cured, and the patient begin by hating and end by 
thanking his physician!” 

“ We will go to Petersburg to-morrow,” said the lady, firmly. 

They made the journey accordingly. They took a house on 
the Krestoffsky Island, and by advice of Vladimir furnished 
both Alexis and himself with large funds, aided by which this 
Mentor set himself to corrupt his pupil. 

Everything is to be bought in capitals, and the Russian capital 
contained women of good position who were easily tempted to 
feign attachment to this Adonis, and cajole him with superlative 
art, which, by the way, in one case became nature through the 
lovely baroness falling really in love with him. With the assist- 
ance of these charmers, and constant letters from Daria, which 
he took the precaution to receive at a post-office, and post his 
own letters with his own hand, he passed three months rather 
gayly. He saw he was being cunningly dealt with, and being a 
Slav himself, he kept demanding money for his pleasures and 
certain imaginary debts of honor, and hoarding it for a virtuous 
and imprudent purpose. 

As for Vladimir, he became easy about his pupil, and pushed 
his own interests with the aid of his grateful patroness. Her 
vast lands and her economy had made her prodigiously rich, 
and by consequence powerful, and, with her influence and the 
money she furnished, Vladimir got the promise of a police mas- 
tership in a town and district about seventy miles distant from 
Smirnovo. 

But all of a sudden his complacency and the tranquillity of his 
patroness received a shock. Alexis disappeared, in spite of all 
the money invested to cure him of a virtuous attachment by 
pleasure, folly, and a little vice, if the good work could not be 
achieved without it. For some days he was sought high and 
low in St. Petersburg, and the police reaped a harvest before 
they found out, or at all events before they revealed, that he 
had hired a traveling-carriage, taken a permis de voyage , and 
gone south post-haste. 

Anna Petrovna hurled Vladimir after him, and Vladimir, 
whose appointment was just signed, donned a uniform, and 
when he left the railway demanded post-horses anywhere in the 
name of the law, and achieved the journey to Smirnovo faster 
even than Alexis. 

He dashed up to the door of the house. It flew open, as usual, 

without knock or ring. 


TIT FOR TAT. 


78 


“ Alexis Pavlovitch ?” 

“ Not here.” 

“ Has he not been here ?” 

“ Yes, slept here one night about two days ago.” 

Vladimir made no noise, but into his carriage again, and away 
to Daria’s cottage. 

Empty, all but an old woman as deaf as a post, and put in 
charge for no other reason. 

From her he could get nothing; from the neighbors only this, 
that the old man and his daughter and Alexis had set forth on 
a journey, and neither they noi the troika nor the horses had 
been heard of since. 

Plutitzin returned crest-fallen to headquarters, wrote to Anna 
Petrovna, and then went to bed for twenty-four hours. 

Next day he put on his uniform, galloped about the country, 
and tried to learn the direction those three fugitives had taken. 

He cajoled, he threatened. “They mean marriage,” said be, 
“ and the man is a minor. His marriage will be annulled, and 
all who have aided and abetted him sent to Siberia.” 

The simple country folk swallowed this brag, coming out of a 
uniform. They tremble! and offered conjectures, having no 
facts; and then lie swore at them and galloped elsewhere. But 
when he bad ridden two horses lame, it struck him all of a sud- 
den that he was acting like a fool. Why hunt these culprits in 
the neighborhood they had left ? 

Within eighty miles — a mere step in Russia — was his new post, 
at Samara, and all the machinery of his office; here he was but 
a private person, cased in an irrelevant uniform. 

That very night he wrote to the municipal authorities of Sa- 
mara, and let them know he should arrive at his official resi- 
dence on the morniDg of next Thursday. 

He gave just time for this missive to get ahead of him, and 
then started. But he made two days of it, and inquired at all 
the stages. Nor were these inquiries fruitless. 

Thirty miles from home he struck the scent of the fugitives, 
and they seemed really to have anticipated his track; but then 
it was nearly three weeks ago. * 

At the last stage before Samara he donned his uniform, and a 
glorious military decoration he had obtained before he left the 
army of his own accord, because he was threatened with an in- 
quiry based on his neglect to pay debts at cards, and thus re- 
splendent he drew near the scene* of his future power and glory 
—stipend moderate, money to be obtained by bribes indefinite. 

As he surmounted a rising ground three miles from the town, 
a peal of musical church bells broke out— one of the drollest and 
prettiest things in Russia, on account of the bells ringing over 
three octaves, and the curious skill of the ringers in sometimes 
running a series, sometimes leaping off treble lowers into pro- 
found wells of melody. Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, b-o-m-e. Tinkle 
borne, tinkle, tinkle, tinkle, borne. 

All this tintinnabulation and boomen gratified Vladimir’s 
vanity. With what quick eyes had Adulation seen the coming 
magnate, and with what watchful fingers rung him into the 


74 


i 

TIT FOR TAT. 

town of Samara! so Vladimir read “ the bells.” He smiled, well 
pleased, and longed to be there; but he had another rise to sur- 
mount first, and as his jaded horses plodded up it, down glided 
an open caleche, with glossy and swift horses, and in it sat 
Alexis and Daria, had in hand; she with her cheek all love and 
blushes on his shoulder; he, seated erect and conscious, her pro- 
tector and her lord. 

The carriages passed each other rapidly; but in that moment 
Alexis drew himself higher, if possible, and his black eyes flashed 
a flame of unspeakable triumph on his baffled pursuer. 

Then there whirled through the brain of Vladimir some such 
thoughts as these: “ Without her father — church bells — that look 
of triumph — useless to follow them — let him have her — she will- 
keep him from marrying till he dies — this marriage illegal — I 
will annul it on the spot — quietly .” 

Revolving the details of this villainous scheme, he entered the 
town of Samara. 


CHAPTER III. 

Vladimir went straight to the church. The priest’s office was 
vacant by his recent decease. The deacon was there. Vladimir 
terrified the simple man; told him he had taken part in an illegal 
act— the marriage of two minors, one of them under a false 
name. The woman, a lady of rank; the soi-disant Alexis, an 
enfranchised serf, whose real name was Kusmin Petroff. 

“Is it possible?” said the dismayed deacon. “Why, her 
father attended the ceremony.” 

“ Her father! Did he look like a nobleman ?” 

“ No; more like a respectable peasant.” 

“Of course. It was her major-domo,” said the unblushing 
Vladimir, “ and it will cost him a trip to Siberia; and if you a; e 
wise, you will endeavor not to accompany him.” 

“ My father,” said the poor man, “ it all seemed honest; they 
sojourned here— more than a fortnight. Their banns were pub- 
lished. Yop cannot suspect me of complicity. I implore you 
not to bring me into trouble.” 

“ Oh, as to that,” said the chief of police, “ all depends on 
your present conduct. Noble families do not love public scan- 
dal. If you place yourself under my orders now, I dare say I 
shall be able to protect you.” 

These terms were eagerly accepted. 

“Now, then,” said this grim functionary, “is this sham mar- 
riage registered ?” 

“Only on a slip of paper, preparatory to my entering it on 
the register.” 

“ You will hand that paper to me.” 

“ Here it is, my father.” 

“And the book of registration.” 

“ Yes,” said the deacon, faintly. 

“A much higher authority than I care to name will decide 
whether there shall be a correct entry or none at all. While his 


TIT FOR TAT. 


75 


Imperial Maj —while this grave matter is under consideration, 
make all future entries on loose paper pro tem.” 

The book was handed over to the chief policeman, and re- 
turned in three weeks, with the remark that it had been to St. 
Petersburg in the interval. 

The simple deacon received it with a genuflection. He 
thought that it had passed through the sacred hands of the 
father of his people. 

Meantime Vladimir wrote to Anna Petrovna aud told her all, 
addressed the letter, and burned it. He remembered that she 
had wavered, and, besides, he recollected her character. She 
was too scrupulous to co-operate with him in hi3 sinister views, 
and indeed had not the same temptation. 

He wrote briefly to say that Alexis and Daria were living to- 
gether as man and wife,, and it was even reported that he had 
deceived her with a form of marriage; but that might be un- 
true. 

Anna Petrovna wrote back to say she should return to Srnir- 
novo at once, and summoned him to her side, “ for,” said she, 
“ I am alone in the world.” 

Instead of melting into tears at the sad words, Vladimir’s eyes 
flashed with greed. The other day a pauper, and now all the 
domain of his powerful relative seemed to be separated from 
him only by one life, and that life not only precarious but 
doomed. 

He left his post directly, appointed a substitute, who was to 
communicate with him on important occasions, and he was at 
Smirnovo to receive Anna Petrovna. She came, worn out with 
fatigue and the struggles of her maternal heart, and next day 
she was seriously ill. Physicians sent for advised darkened 
room— relief from business and anxieties — and poisoned her a 
little with mild narcotics. 

Vladimir now read all her letters, and replied to all except 
two. These were from Alexis and Daria, entreating pardon, 
with a filial anxiety and a loving tenderness that would have 
melted the mother at once. But this domestic fiend oppressed 
them, and the young pair got no reply whatever. 

This marred in some degree their short-lived happiness. Still, 
they hoped all from time, and recovering by degrees the cruel 
rebuff, they were so happy that every day they blessed each other, 
and wondered whether any other mortals had attained such bliss 
on this side heaven. 

Alas! in the midst of their paradise Fate struck them down. 
Alarming symptoms attacked Alexis. Physicians were sent for, 
one after another, and all looked grave. Daria wrote wildly to 
his mother: “ He is dying. Come, if you love him better than I 
do. Come, and take him from me forever. Only save him.’ 
Hope rose and fell, then dwindled altogether. Daria watched 
him day and night, and eyed every doctors face so piteously 
that they had not the heart to speak out, but their looks and 
tones were volumes. At last the greatest physician in the em- 
pire came and stood with his confreres over that sad bed. He 


76 TIT FOR TAT. 

felt the patient’s heart, his head, his limbs. He said but one 
word: 

“ Moribundus.” 

Then he retired without losing a moment more, where science 
was as vain as ignorance. 

***■*# # # 

Vladimir did not let Anna Petrovna see Daria’s letter, but he 
went to her, and said, with agitation real or feigned, “ I hear 
Alexis is ill. I must go to him. I love the boy. If he is seri- 
ously ill, let me tell him you forgive him. Do not run a risk of 
shortening his life.” 

The poor mother trembled, wept, and assented, and the hypo- 
crite became dearer to her than ever. 

He started at once for Petersburg, and, traveling day and 
night, soon reached the pleasant villa from which Daria’s letter 
was written. 

Outside were pink sun-blinds, marble pillars festooned with 
creepers, and all the luxuries of civilized existence; inside, the 
dire realities of life — the husband a corpse, the wife raving, and 
both of them in their prime. That no cruel feature might be 
absent, an official stood there, like an iron pillar, demanding the 
immediate interment of him who, according to nature, had just 
begun to live. 

There was no more temptation to be cruel. Vladimir buried 
the husband, got two good professional nurses for the wife, wrote 
feeling letters to the bereaved mother, and invited Daria's father 
to come to her at once. He even deceived himself into believ- 
ing he was very sorry for all the hearts that were broken by 
this blow, and that he stayed in the capital to keep guard over the 
house of mourning, whereas what he stayed for was to enjoy the 
pleasures of the capital, and get himself appointed by the State 
administrator to Alexis, who, like most that love well, had died 
intestate, and left his love to battle for the rights he could have 
secured her by a stroke of the pen in season. 

Alexis had drawn the rents of Staropolsk, his patrimony, and 
there was money in the house: but Vladimir thought it wise to 
connive at that, and fasten on a larger booty. Though older in 
years, he was somehow heir at law to Alexis, and being admin- 
istrator, had only to help himself. 

From such a mind it is a relief to turn to sacred sorrow. An 
old man conveyed home by easy stages a pale young woman in 
a full cap, worn to hide the loss, by grief and brain-fever, of her 
lovely golden hair. It was the broken-hearted Daria. 

A mother bereaved of her only son sought comfort in religion, 
and awaited her own summons, with thanks to God that she had 
not many years to live alone in this cruel world. This was the 
brave Anna. Petrovna. 


CHAPTER TV. 

In the second month of her widowhood her father told Daria 
t he ought to demand her third. 

" My third!” said she, “ I have lost him, and would you com- 


17 


TIT FOR TAT . 

fort me with his money?” And she burst into such passionate 
weeping that the old man promised faithfully not to renew the 
subject. 

In the fourth month of her widowhood she came and stood by 
her father as he was smoking his cigarette, put a hand light as a 
feather on Ins shoulder, looked down upon the floor, and said in 
a low but rather firm voice, “ Yes.” 

“ Yes, what ?'* asked the old man. 

“ You can ask for our thirds.” 

“ Our thirds? Why, I have no claim.” 

“ No, not you; but- ” 

“ What! Daria, my little soul. You blush. Is it so ? Never 
mind your old father. Yes; well, then, now you are a woman, 
and your thirds you shall have, the pair of ye, or I’m not a 
man.” 

By this time it was well known that Vladimir inherited and 
administered the estate of Alexis Pavlovitch Staropolsky, de- 
ceased; so Kyril Solovieff wrote to him with Russian politeness, 
hoped he was not premature or troublesome, but the widow of 
Alexis would be grateful if he would let her have her third, or a 
portion on account. 

Vladimir, who had not been in a public office for nothing, 
wrote a line acknowledging receipt, and saying the matter- 
should meet with due consideration. 

And so it did. He did not like parting with a third, but he 
had vague fears of a public discussion. He felt inclined to write 
back that he could not recognize the marriage as a legal one, but 
would respect the sentiments of his deceased relative, and dis- 
burse to her the same sum as if the marriage had been legal. 

But before he could quite make up his mind a report reached 
him which, vague as it was, alarmed him seriously. He in- 
stantly employed spies; and they soon let him know that Daria 
Solovieff asked for her thirds because she had another to pro- 
vide for — the offspring of her beloved Alexis. 

This was told him with such circumstance and detail as left 
no doubt possible; and so the weak woman, who the other day lay 
at his mercy, struck terror to the very bones of this Machiavel; 
and all the better. It is a comfort to find that in the scheme of 
nature the weak can now and then confound the strong and 
cruel. 

War to the knife now! This serf spawn, if it lived, would 
inherit the lands of Staropolsk and Smirnovo. Vladimir must 
not by word or deed admit the marriage. 

He wrote, and denied all legal claim, but offered 5,000 rubles 
out of respect for the memory of Alexis. 

This was declined, and proceedings commenced. A lawyer 
got up the case for Daria, instructed by her father. 

Vladimir prepared his own case, and spent money like water; 
got the deacon of Samara out of the way to a better place 
twelve hundred miles off; had famous counsel from St. Peters- 
burg, etc. 

The case was tried in the district court. The defense was, 
“ No marriage at all, or else illegal by minority,” 


78 


TIT FOR TAT. 


On the question of minority the defense was upset, the Solo- 
vieffs made a hit there: they brought witnesses out of the ene- 
my’s camp — the nurse of Alexis, who had noted the very hour 
of his birth, four o’clock in the morning of the 9th of Mav, 
1846. 

Now the witnesses swore he was married 9th of May, at 11 
A.M. 

Three witnesses who knew Alexis and had seen him married 
had been spirited away for the time by the gold of Plutitzin. 
Eighteen natives of the town gave secondary evidence — swore 
to the bride there present, and that the bridegroom was a young 
man with swarthy complexion and wonderful black eyes, who 
passed for Alexis Pavlovitch Staropolsky. 

This evidence led up to the direct testimony of old Kyril Solo- 
vieff, that he had driven Alexis from Smirnovo to Samara, and 
given him at the altar his daughter there present. 

The last witness was Daria herself. Her beauty and sorrow 
and angelic candor, coupled with her situation, which was now 
very manifest, and a touching justification of her proceed- 
ings, both in defense of her good name and her other rights, 
won every heart, and indeed made every word she spoke seem 
gospel truth. 

She dec osed to her adoption by Anna Petrovna, her courtship 
by Alexis, their separation, his fidelity, their sojourn in Samara, 
their marriage, their cohabitation, her refusal to take these pro- 
ceedings until she found herself pregnant. 

When she was taken, sobbing and half fainting out of the 
box, defense seemed impossible. Many persons present wept, 
and amongst them was a young lawyer, who never forgot that 
trial, never for a moment misunderstood a single point of it. It 
was the faithful, forgiving Ivan Ulitch Koscko. 

The defendant’s counsel rose calmly, and alleged fraud. He 
admitted the attachment between Alexis and the plaintiff, and 
argued that to possess this beautiful woman he had lent her 
his name, upon conditions which she and her friends never vio- 
lated till death had closed his lips. 

The person she had legally 7 married was some tool bought for 
the job, and to leave the country forever, and make way for the 
real possessor but fictitious husband. 

Then they put in the book of registry, and, with a certain calm 
contempt, left their case entirely with the judge. 

People stared and wondered. 

The judge examined the book, and read from it: “ May 9, 
1866, married Kusmin Gavrilovitch Petroff and Daria Kirilovna 
Solovieff, strangers.” 

A chill ran round the court. 

The judge asked the defendant's counsel in whose handwriting 
this entry was. 

“ In the same as the rest apparently.” 

“ And who wrote the rest ?” 

“ We do not know for certain.” 

“Well, I must know before I admit it against sworn wit- 
nesses.” 


TIT FOR TAT. 


'9 


He retired to take some refreshment, and on his return they 
had witnesses to swear that the entry in question and the notice 
that preceded it, and thirty-five per cent that followed it, were 
all in the handwriting of the last deacon. 

“ Where is he?” asked the judge. 

“ He was promoted some time ago to a church on the confines 
of Siberia.” 

Then the judge expressed dissatisfaction at his not being there, 
and thereupon each counsel blamed the other. The plaintiff's 
counsel believed that he had been spirited away. The defend- 
ant's counsel said that was an unworthy suspicion; the law re- 
lied on the book, not on the writer; he in many cases must be 
absent, since in many he was dead. It was for the other party, 
who had the book against them, to call the writer if they dared; 
and being plaintiff, they could have postponed the case until they 
had found him. 

In this argument the barrister from the capital gained an 
advantage over the local advocate, and the judge nodded as- 
sent. 

This concluded the trial, and the judge delivered the verdict 
and his reasons in a very few words. 

“ This is a strange case,” said he, “ a mysterious case. There 
is a conflict of evidence, all open to objection. The direct evi- 
dence for the plaintiff is respectable, but interested; the evidence 
for the defendant is a book, and cannot be cross-examined. But 
then that book is the special evidence appointed by law to 
decide these cases. It can only be impugned by evidence of 
forgery or addition, mutilation or adulteration of some kind or 
other. It is not so impugned in this case; therefore it binds me. 
The verdict is for the defendant, the marriage of the plaintiff to 
Alexis Pavlovitch Staropolsky being not proved according to 
law, and indeed rather disproved.” 

Daria’s father went home furious at the defeat and the loss of 
money. Daria shed some patient tears, but bore the disappoint- 
ment and the wrong with fortitude. 

As the defeated ones drove out of the town in their humble 
vehicle they were stopped by an old friend — Ivan Ulitch. The 
meeting made them both uneasy. They had dismissed him so 
curtly, and what had they gained ? The farmer even expected 
an affront, or ironical sympathy. But Ivan was not of that 
sort. He was “ humble fidelity ” in person. Affectionate, not 
passionate, he had obeyed his beautiful friend, and left her in 
prosperity, but in her adversity he returned to her directly. 

“ Daria, my soul,” said he, “ do not be discouraged by this de- 
feat. It is a fraud of some sort. Give me time; I shall unravel 
it. I live here now, and shall soon be a clerk no more, but a 
lawyer to defend your rights.” 

“Good Ivan — kind, faithful Ivan!” said Daria, through her 
tears. “ What, are you still my friend ?” 

“ More than ever, dear soul, now I see you wronged. Do not 
lose heart. This defeat is nothing. Your lawyer was weak; the 
other side were strong and unscrupulous, and have fought with 
gold and fraud. That is self-evident, though the fraud itself is 


80 TIT FOR TAT. 

obscure. No matter: I will work like a mole for you, and un- 
ravel the knavery.” 

Daria interrupted him. “ No, Ivan Ulitch; that you esteem me 
still is a drop of comfort, welcome as water to the thirsty. But 
no more law for me.” 

And so they parted. 

Ivan, though he seemed to acquiesce, was not to be discour- 
aged. For months and years he patiently groped beneath the 
surface of this case, yet never mentioned the case itself. He 
watched for the return of smuggled away witnesses; he listened 
iu cafes and cabarets; he courted the priest and the deacon; he 
was artful, silent, patient, penetrating. Love by degrees made 
him as dangerous as greed had made Vladimir Alexeitch. 

Meantime that victorious villain hurried away to his head- 
quarters, and told Anna Petrovna there had been no difficulty 
after all. The very register of the place had shown that the 
person Daria was really married to was a serf. 

“I do not doubt it,” said Anna PetrovDa: “but I cannot 
rejoice with you. Would to God mv son had married her, and 
not died with that crime on his soul!*’ 

Vladimir shrugged his shoulders, and made no reply. As for 
Anna Petrovna, she never recurred to the subject; and indeed 
she hated the very name of Daria Solovieff . She was obliged 
to hear it now and then; but she never uttered it of her own 
accord. 

Daria became the mother of a beautiful boy, and the joys of 
maternity reconciled her to life. Youth and health and mater- 
nal joy fought against grief, and in time gave her back all her 
beauty, with a pensive tenderness that elevated it. Her position 
was painful; but the country people stood by her. The women 
instinctively sided with her, and laid all the blame on the pride 
of the nobles. 

Sne called her boy Alexis, and he was as dark as she was 
fair. She had him well educated from his very infancy, and 
let everybody know that they must treat him like a noble, but 
herself like a peasant. She never went near Smirnovo, nor did 
Anna Petrovna ever come her way. Yet they often thought of 
each other, and each wondered how she could have so mistaken 
the other’s character. Their friends did not fail to keep the 
mutual repulsion alive, the impassable gulf open. 

Ivan visited the cottage from time to time, and was always 
welcome. One year after the birth of Alexis, he offered mar- 
riage to Daria. She thanked him for his fidelity, but calmly 
declined. This restricted him to one topic; and to do him 
justice, the enduring fellow did not cool in it one bit merely 
because Daria would not marry him. He remained just as full 
of the law case and Plutitzin’s knavery, to whose influence he 
had pretty well traced the false entry in [the register, and the 
disappearance of the deacon, lost in that boundless empire, and 
separated from clerical functions, otherwise Ivan would have 
discovered him by his agents. 

But Ivan's only eager listener was the old peasant. Daria had 
lost faith in human tribunals, and had no personal desire for 


TIT FOR TAT 


81 


wealth. With her the heart predominated over the pocket. 
Her great grief now was her alienation from the mother of 
Alexis, her old benefactress. She often said that if any one 
would only confine her in one prison with Anna Petrovna, she 
would regain her confidence and her love. But her old pa- 
troness was physically inaccessible to her — at the capital nine 
months in the year, and shut up the rest; dragons at every door, 
under the chief dragon Vladimir, who seldom went near his 
office, but just cannily bribed everybody who objected to his 
frequent absences. 

So rolled the years away, till one day Ivan Ulitch, now a keen 
lawyer in good practice, came to the cottage, “ bearded like the 
pard,” and somewhat changed in manner, more authoritative. 

“ The time is come,” said he; “ the plum is ripe.” 

Daria rose quietly and was about to retire, but Ivan requested 
her to stay. 

She said it was not necessary; her father would tell her; besides, 
Alexis was calling for her. 

“Then let him come to you,” said Ivan, firmly. “It is for 
him I have been working, as for you. I think I have a right to 
look at him.” 

“Oh yes,” said Daria, coloring up, and brought the boy in, 
and with her native politeness said to him, “ Alosha, this is a 
good friend to you and me; shake bands with him,” 

Alexis shook hands directly. 

“ And now sit quiet, my dove.” 

Her dove sat quiet, and opened two glorious eyes on Ivan 
Ulitch. 

“ Daria Kirilovna,” said Ivan, “if you submit to that knave 
Plutitzin, you let him rob this boy out of his right. The mo- 
ment your marriage is established, he is the owner of Staropolsk 
and the heir of Anna Petrovna. Now do you love the son of 
Alexis Pavlovitch — great Heaven! how like he is to his father! — 
do you love him like a child or like a woman?” 

The poor thing held out her arms to Alexis with an inarticu- 
late cry, the sacred music of a mother’s heart. Alexis ran to 
her. She was all over him in a moment, and nestled bis head in 
her bosom, and rocked a little with him. “Do I love my heart 
and soul ? Do I love my pigeon of pigeons?” 

“ I love you, mammy,” suggested Alexis. 

“ Ay, my heart of hearts; but not as your mammy loves you. 
How could you ?” 

The men said nothing, but their eyes were moist, and Ivan 
felt ashamed he had said anything that could be construed into 
a doubt. He began to stammer excuses. 

“Nay, nay,” said Daria. “I know what you meant, and I 
deserve it. The love of my precious has been all I needed. I 
ought to look forward to the days when he will be a man, and 
perhaps ask why I neglected his interests, and his good name a* 
well as mine. My faithful friend, if you are to be our lawyer, I 
will try once more— for my Alexis. * I will face that dreadful 
court again for my Alexis.” 

“Victory!” cried Ivan Ulitch, starting up and waving his cap. 


82 


TIT FOR TAT. 


Alexis approved this behavior highly. It was so new in that 
staid house. “Victory!*’ he cried, and caught up his pork- pie 
to wave it, but was cut short, and nearly smothered with kisses. 

“ Here is a change of wind,” said the old man, dryly, “but 
excuse me, son Ivan, it is not victory yet. These young women 
they hang back and pull against you, and then all in a moment 
start off full gallop, and neat-leather reins won’t hold them. 
But I must have my word too. The last trial cost me all my 
savings in one day. Will this cost as much?” 

“The double.” 

“ And am I to pay it?” 

“ You will not pay one solkov. I shall pay it, and this boy’s 
inheritance will repay it with interest.” 

“ Good! On these terms law is a luxury.” 

“ Not to me, if my best friend is to risk his money for us,” 
said Daria. 

“That is my business,” retorted Ivan Ulitch, curtly. 

Daria apologized with feigned humility, but made an appeal. 
“ Now, father ” 

“Why, girl,” said he, “the longer we live, the more we 
learn. He is not the calf he was when he first got tethered to 
your petticoats. He is a ripe lawyer now, by all accounts, and 
as sharp as a vixen with seven cubs. For all that, Mr. Lawyer, 
I should like to know whether that register book will come 
against us.” 

“ Of course it will; it is the pillar of the defense.” 

“ Then it will beat us again.” 

“ I think not.” 

“Then how ” 

Ivan interrupted him. “Kyril Kyrilovitch, you said right: 
‘the longer we live, the more we learn.’ Well, I have lived 
long enough to learn that in ticklish cases it is best to tell no- 
body w hat cards you mean to play. The very birds of the air 
carry our words to the other side. I will say no more than this. 
I have spies in the very home of Anna Petrovna. At present 
she knows neither me nor Plutitzin. She shall know us both, 
and it is not \my witnesses that the enemy’s gold shall put out 
of the way during the trial. It is I who" will bottle the wine, 
and keep it in cellar for use. All I require of you is not to 
breathe to a soul that we even intend to appeal against that 
judgment. If you breathe a syllable, you will cut your own 
throats and mine.” 

Before he left he recurred to this, and once more exacted a 
solemn promise of secrecy. This done, be cut his visit short, and 
went home. 

It would be out of place and unnecessary to follow Ivan 
Ulitch Koscko in all his acts. Suffice it to say that he now be- 
gan to gather certain fruits he had been years maturing. But 
one of the things he did was, to the best of my belief, new in 
the history of mankind. In the first place it was a piece of 
knavery done by an honest man. That is unusual, but far from 
unique. But then it was done for no personal gain, and mainlv 
out of love Of justice, and justice had little chance of success 


TIT FOR TAT. 


8 & 


without the help of this injustice. To this singular situation add 
the act itself and its unique details, and I think you will come to 
my opinion that, old as the world is, this precise thing was never 
done upon its surface before that day. 

Well, then, Ivan Ulitch and the new deacon were bosom- 
friends, and that friendship had been planted years ago, and 
sunned and watered and grown and ripened for this one day’s 
work. 

The deacon went a day’s journey, leaving Ivan some ecclesias- 
tical deeds to decipher and comment on in his house. Ivan 
breakfasted with him, and after his departure showed the 
deacon’s housekeeper the work he had before him, and said: 
“ Now, Tania, mind I am not here. I can’t do such work as this 
if I am interrupted. Do not come near me till three o’clock, nor 
let any one else.” 

Tatiana, with whom he was a special favorite, promised faith- 
fully, and proved a very dragon. 

Ivan took out of his lawyer’s bag a corkscrew, various vials 
containing inks and chemicals, paper, numberless pens, and 
other things not worth enumerating, and out of his pockets 
magnifiers set in spectacles, and things like surgeons’ instru- 
ments. 

He went to a little book-shelf, took out a book, and found a 
key; with this key he opened an old oak chest, clamped with 
iron, and found a book with vellum leaves and a parchment 
cover brownish with age. It was the register. This book was 
made near a century ago by a priest who was an enthusiast. 
Common as skins are in Russia, this use of vellum was very 
rare. 

He read several pages. He put on magnifiers, and examined 
the fatal entry; then, without removing his magnifiers, he pro- 
ceeded with his surgical instruments to efface the name of Kus- 
min Gavrilovitch PetrofF. In this work he proceeded with sin- 
gular gentleness and slowness. He was full two hours effacing 
that one name. Then he heated an iron the size of a walnut, 
and, after trying it on other parts of the book, ironed down his 
work so that it was no longer visible to the naked eye, but only 
to a strong magnifier. 

Then with various inks and various pens he set to work to 
imitate on paper the handwriting of the late deacon and the 
words Kusmin Gavrilovitch Petroff, for which he had previ- 
ously searched when he read the other pages, and found an 
example readily, for it was a common name. 

When he had mastered the imitation, he took a hand magni- 
fier and wrote Kusmin Gavrilovitch Petroff over the place of 
the old signature. Then he put the book in the sun and let his 
work dry. It dried a trifle paler than the rest of the book, but 
with a crow-quill he added the requisite color here and there. 

The work was hardly finished when a heavy knock at the 
door made him start and tremble. 


u 


TIT FOR TAT. 


CHAPTER V. 

“ What is it?” 

“ Five o’clock,” replied the voice of Tatiana. 

And he thought it was about one. 

He begged for half an hour more, and began to tie up the old 
papers with fingers that trembled now for the first time. 

He put away the register, locked the chest, put the key in its 
hiding-place, unbolted the door, and asked Tatiana for a glass 
of brandy. 

She brought it him directly* and said he needed it. 

“ No matter,” said he; “ the work is done.” He drank Tati- 
ana’s health, and went away gayly. 

Tatiana went into the room, and found the pile of old papers 
all neatly done up and tied. “Musty old things!” said she. 
“ ’Tis a shame a comely young man like that must bury his 
nose in such old-world muck. Smells like the grave: no won- 
der he got pale over them, the nasty trash.” 

Soon after this Ivan appeared at the cottage with affidavits to 
be signed by Daria, Kyril, and others, and in due course moved 
for a new trial upon numberless depositions alleging fraud, sup- 
pression of evidence, inefficient inquiry, recent discoveries, non- 
existence of an imaginary husband palmed upon the court, etc. 

The notice of motion was served on Anna Petrovna and Vlad- 
imir Alexeitch. Anna Petrovna declined to move hand or foot. 
Vladimir opposed by powerful counsel, but the court could not 
burke an inquiry supported by such a mass of affidavits. 

Vladimir, however, was very successful in another branch of 
policy. Even as Fabius wore out Annibal, he baffled the plaintiff, 
“ ad cunctando restituit rem.” 

First, Anna Petrovna, whom he bad the effrontery to call his 
leading witness, though he knew “ oxen and twain ropes would 
not drag her” into court. 

Then at the end of the three months he was ill himself. 

Then, just as the trial was coming on, he could not find the 
late deacon. He had suddenly disappeared from Russia, and 
was said to be in Constantinople. 

And so he sickened the adversaries’ hearts, and they began to 
fear the new trial would not come on in their lifetime, if at all. 

It was actually delayed eighteen months by these acts. But 
Ivan was cot idle. He got the local press to insert timid hints 
of a most important trial unreasonably delayed. He even got a 
hint conveyed to the president that the right of postponement 
was being extended to a defeat of justice, and at last a sturdy 
judge said: “ No. At the last trial you relied mainly on an evi- 
dence that is easy of access. It is a sufficient defense, and you 
disclose no other. The cause ought to be tried during the life- 
time of all the parties interested.” 

Then he appointed a day. 

The trial came on, with great expectation, in the leading court 
of Petersburg. 

This time there were three judges. 


TIT FOR TAT. _ 85 

To avoid weariness, I shall confine myself to such features of 
this trial as were new. 

At the first trial Daria was dressed like a lady, and was inter- 
esting by her pale beauty and manifest pregnancy. 

At this trial she was more beautiful, but dressed like a supe- 
rior peasant, and her lovely boy like a noble, in rich silk tunic, 
boots, and cap with feather. So with a woman’s subtletv did 
she convey that she came there for her son’s rights, not her 
own. 

The court was full of ladies, and thev all found means to tele- 
graph their sympathy, and keep up her fainting heart as she sat 
there with her boy’s hand in hers. 

As to the evidence, the depositions of the old witnesses were 
taken down by the local court, and merely read at Petersburg. 
Tu these were now added certain facts, also proved on the spot, 
one being the adoption by Anna Petrovna of their client. They 
proved by many female witnesses her virtue from her youth, 
and that she was not the woman to live paramour with any 
man. 

They were more particular as to the bans, and proved by 
oral testimony of several persons that not Kusmin Petroff, but 
Alexis Starapolsky, was cried in church with Daria Solovieff. 

They then tried to prove a negative, that nobody had seen 
Petroff, but one of the judges stopped them. Said lie, “ It does 
not lie on you to produce Petroff. The other side will do that.” 

“ We doubt it, said the advocate. 

“ Then all the better for you,” said the judge. 

From Daria herself they elicited that no man called Petroff 
had ever written or spoken to her either before or after her mar- 
riage, and that ten minutes after the wedding she and Alexis 
had met Vladimir Alexeitch, the real defendant, just outside 
the town, and her husband and he had exchanged looks of defi- 
ance. 

They proved by another witness the arrival of Vladimir in the 
town about half an hour after the wedding, and that he was 
seen to go into the church at once, and come out with the 
deacon. ' 

Vladimir, there present, began to perspire at every pore. 

When the defendant’s turn came, his counsel told the court 
all this had been put forward at the last trial, and had been met 
triumphantly by an obvious solution, viz., that the late Alexis 
Staropolsky had loved *a beautiful woman, who had never de- 
viated from the paths of virtue before, and was only persuaded 
under cover of a marriage ceremony. At that point, however, 
the young noble had protected himself against a mesalliance, 
and substituted a convenient husband, who was to disappear, 
and did disappear; but the good simple deacon had recorded all 
he saw or divined — the real marriage. 

“A real marriage without bans,” suggested one of the 
judges. 

“ So it appears,” said counsel, indifferently. “Iam not here 
to bind the plaintiff to Petroff, but to detach her from Staropol- 
gky. The register is here. The plaintiff married Petroff or no - 


86 


TIT FOR TAT. 


body. The proof is technical, and it is the proof the law de- 
mands. This court does not sit to make the law, nor to break 
the law, but to find the law.” 

“ That is so,” said the president. “ Let me see the book.” 

The book was handed up. The judges examined it, and all 
looked grave. 

Counsel proceeded to prove the handwriting, as before, by 
secondary evidence. 

One of the judges objected. “This writing is opposed to 
such a weight of oral testimony that we shall expect to see the 
writer of it.” 

Counsel informed the court that they had hunted Russia for 
him, but could not find him. “For years after this business he 
lived near Viatka, but now we have lost sight of him. Had the 
plaintiff appealed in a reasonable time, we should have had the 
benefit of his personal evidence.” 

“ There is something in that,” said the judge. Another re- 
marked that entries in the same handwriting preceded and fol- 
lowed the entry in question. A third judge found another Pe- 
. troff exactly like the writing of the fatal Petroff, and so, after 
a snarl or two, they excused the absence of the old deacon. 

Vladimir’s counsel whispered him, “ You are lucky, the case 
is won.” 

The judges retired to take some refreshment and agree upon 
their judgment. 

They left the register behind them. Ivan got it from the clerk, 
and examined it carefully. The other side looked on sneeringly. 

Ivan moved his finger over the entry, and whispered, “ It feels 
rough here.” 

“ Indeed,” said his counsel. “ Yes, I think it does. Don't say 
anything; get me a magnifier.” 

Ivan went out, and soon found a magnifier, having brought 
three with him into court for this little comedy. Counsel ap- 
plied it. 

“The vellum appears to be scraped in places,” said he. “ Now 
let me see. We will flatter the president.” Just then the judges 
entered, and this foxy counsel said, respectfully, “We have 
found something rather curious in this entry; but my eyes are 
not so good as your excellency’s. Would you object to examine 
it with a magnifier ?” 

The judge nodded assent. The book and magnifier were handed 
up to him. He examined them carefully, and said that he 
thought some name had been erased and another written over it. 

At that there was an excited murmur. 

“But,” said he, “ we must take evidence, for this is a serious 
matter. You must call experts. And you, please call experts 
on your side, for they seldom agree.” 

The trial was postponed an hour, and the court seemed invaded 
with bees. 

Ivan got experts, and sat quaking and wondering how much 
experts really knew. “We suspect erasure,” said he, to guide 
them. 

In the box those two saw erasure of some word previous to the 


TIT FOR TAT. 87 

writing of Petroff. But they could not say what word it was. 
Did not think it was Petroff. 

The other two saw erasures, or else scraping, but thought it 
was rather the light scraping of vellum that is sometimes done to 
get rid of the grease, etc., and make a better signature. But 
agreed with the others that the words were written over the 
scraping. 

One of the plaintiff’s experts was recalled and asked his 
opinion of that evidence. 

Said he, “I was surprised at it, because in preparing parch- 
ment for writing nobody scrapes in the form of the coming sig- 
nature; one scrapes a straight strip.” 

Here the judge interposed his good sense. “ Look through 
the book,” he said, “and tell me in how many places the vellum 
has been scraped before writing.” 

He looked and could not find one but this entry. 

They battled over it to and fro, and at last one of the experts 
swore that Daria's name and Petroff's were hot written with ex- 
actly the same ink; more gum in the latter. 

After a long battle, of experts, the judges compared notes, 
and the president delivered judgment. 

“ This is the case of Substance v. Shadow. Here is a weight 
of evidence to prove that the plaintiff is a virtuous woman, 
adopted for her superior qualities by the mother of the deceased, 
and that mother, described before the trial as a leading witness, 
does not appear to contradict her on oath. The plaintiff and 
Alexis Staropolsky are traced to Samara, seen there as lovers by 
many; their bans are called, and they are accompanied to 
church by living witnesses. They go from the church door and 
meet the defendant, who dares not enter the witness-box and 
deny this. They cohabit, and a son is born, but the husband 
dies. This calamity is taken advantage of to defeat the right 
with shadows. The first shadow is Kusmin Gavrilovitch Petroff; 
he is never seen to enter the church door or leave it. If he was 
present at the ceremony, he came in at the window, departed 
out of the window, and vanished into space. But more prob- 
ably he is a nom deplume. A certain deacon erased some other 
name, and then wrote over the vacancy this nom de plume, and 
then made himself a shadow. We need not go into conjectures 
as to what name was originally written in that registry. That 
might be necessary under other circumstances, but here there is 
a chain of evidence of living witnesses to prove the marriage of 
Daria Kirilovna Solovieff and Alexis Pavlovitch Staropolsky. It 
is encountered by no man and no thing , but a mutilated book 
recording a nom de plume upon an erasure. The judgment 
must be for the plaintiff. The marriage was legal, and her son 
is legitimate. Their material rights will, no doubt, be protected 
in another court upon due application.” 

The people rose, the ladies waved their handkerchief to Daria 
and her beautiful boy, and he actually kissed his hand to them 
with the instinct of his race. 

Out of the court there was a joyful meeting, and Daria actu- 
ally took Ivan by the shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. 


TIT FOR TAT. 


88 

i 

But she was away again so quick that the enraptured but mod- 
est lover never kissed her in return, he was so taken by surprise. 
However, he remembered the gentle onslaught with rapture. 
He sent her home with certain instructions. He remained to 
do her business. The case was reported, and he sent six copies 
of journals to the house of Anna Petrovna. One of the two 
copies sent to herself was in a light parcel surrounded by lace, 
for he felt sure Vladimir had taken measures to intercept in- 
formation of any kind. 

He then moved the Orphan Court to attach the separate estate 
of Alexis, deceased, give the widow her third, and put the rest in 
trust for Alexis junior. 

The other party, however, asked a brief delay to argue this, 
and meantime gave notice of appeal to the Senate on the ques- 
tion of marriage and legitimacy. 

Vladimir wrote to Anna Petrovna, bidding her be under no 
anxiety as to the final result. They should accuse the other 
side of tampering with the register. 

However, when this letter reached her, Anna Petrovna was 
another woman. The journals directed to her house were inter- 
cepted, but the parcel of lace reached her, and inside it was the 
report, and this line, “ Sent in this form because important com- 
munications to you have been constantly intercepted since you 
put yourself in the power of your son’s worst enemy.” 

“Can this be so?” said Madame Staropolsky. “No, it is a 
calumny. I will not read this paper.” She tossed it from her. 

On second thoughts she would read it, out of curiosity, just to 
see by what arts these people had deceived the judges. 

She read the report word for word, read it with carefully 
nursed prejudice fighting against native justice and good sense, 
and a sort of chill came over her. She had resigned her intelli- 
gence to Vladimir for seven years. Now she began to resume it. 

“Oh, foolish woman,” she said, “to go on year after year 
hearing but one side in such a case as this! Virtuous! Yes, she 
was: and he impetuous and willful. How often have these two 
things led to a mesalliance ?” 

fe She went over all the points of the judgment, and could not 
gainsay them. 

She sat all day and brooded over the past, and digested the 
matter, and was sore perplexed. Next day, whilst she was 
brooding, the old nurse of the family, whom Vladimir had been 
unable to corrupt, put into her hands a note. 

“ From whom ?” she asked. 

“ From one who loves you, my heart’s soul.” 

“Ah! What, has she bewitched thee 9” She opened the note 
with compressed lips, but hands that trembled a little. 

“Anna Petrovna, — How can we deceive you? You have 
eyes and ears, and more wisdom than the judges; pray, pray 
let us come to your feet for judgment. I will abandon all my 
rights if you look us in the face and bid me. Daria.” 

“The witch!” said Madame Petrovna, trembling a little, 


TIT FOR TAT. 89 

‘‘ She thinks I cannot resist her voice. And can I? Ay, nurse, 
she will abandon her rights, but not her son’s.” 

“ Can you blame her, my heart?” 

“ No,” said the lady, with a blunt honesty all her own. 

Then she sat down and wrote, with her most austere face. 
“ Come, if you have the courage to meet the mother of Alexis.” 

She sent the nurse off with this in a fast troika; and when the 
nurse was gone she regretted it. Daria was a woman now, and 
a mother defending her child. What chance would the truth 
have if she resisted it with that voice of hers and all a mother’s 
art? 

Then again she thought: “ No, I have my eyes as well as my 
ears, and I am a mother too. She cannot deceive me,” 

Some hours passed, and the carriage did not return. 

Then she said: “I thought not. It was bravado. She is 
afraid to come.” 

Then she began to be sorry Daria was afraid to come. 

Meantime Daria was dressing the boy in a suit she had bought 
in St. Petersburg expressly for this long-meditated, longed-for, 
and dreaded interview. The suit was the very richest purple 
silk — cap, tunic, and trousers tucked into Wellington -boots; in 
the cap a short peacock’s feather. This was all the motherly art 
she practiced. She prepared no tale nor bewitching accents, 
and she trembled at what she was going to do. 

Anna Petrovna, finding she did not come, rang and inquired 
whether the nurse had come back. 

“No.” 

“ Has the carriage returned ?” 

“No.” 

Another hour of doubt, and wheels were heard. 

Anna Petrovna seated herself in state, and steeled herself. 

The door opened softly, and two figures came toward her down 
the vast apartment. 

It was the young Alexis and his mother. I put him first be- 
cause his mother did so. She kept him a little before her to bear 
the brunt; with a white hand on his shoulder, she advanced him, 
and half followed, like a bending lily, with sweet obsequious 
Oriental grace. 

As they advanced, Anna Petrovna rose rather haughtily at 
first; but no sooner were they near her than she uttered a cry so 
loud, so passionate, though devoid of terror, that it pierced and 
thrilled all hearts without alarming them. 

“ My boy, my child, come back from the dead — where — how? 
Am I mad — am I dreaming? No, it is my child, my beautiful 
childl He is seven years old— the painter has just left. Jesul 
this is Thy doing. Thou hast had pity on another bereaved 
mother.” 

Her age left her. She was down on her knees before the boy 
in a moment, and held him tight, and put back his hair, and 
gazed into his eyes, and devoured him with kisses. “Lawyers, 
witnesses, judges, mortal men, this is beyond your power. Nat- 
ure speaks. God gives me back my darling from the dead. 
Bless you for giving me back my own— my own, own, own. To 


90 


TIT FOR TAT. 


my arms, my children.*’ Then all three were locked in one em- 
brace, and the tears fell like rain. Blessed, balmy dew of lov- 
ing hearts too long estranged ! 


CHAPTER VT. 

There are scenes that cannot be prolonged on paper. It would 
chill them. I shall only say that long after the first wild emotion 
had subsided Anna Petrovna and her new-found daughter could 
not part even for a moment, but must sit with clasped hands 
looking at their child, to whom liberty was conceded in virtue 
of his sex, and he roamed the apartments inquisitive, followed 
by four eyes. 

Another carriage was sent to the cottage for clothes. Daria 
and her boy were kept for — ever; and, to close the salient inci- 
dents of the day, Anna Petrovna hurried off a letter to Vladimir, 
peremptorily forbidding him to appeal against the decision, and 
promising him, on that condition, a liberal allowance during his 
lifetime out of the personal estate of the writer, for she had 
saved a large sum on the estate. 

Two days later came Ivan Ulitch, who had been at the cottage 
and learned the reconciliation. The object of his visit was to 
secure his beloved Daria from molestation from Vladimir 
Alexeitch, who, he felt sure, would return very soon. He 
brought with him a hangdog -looking fellow, who had been a 
servant in the great house, and expelled. Ivan sought an inter- 
view. Daria’s influence secured it to him directly. He came 
into the room with this fellow crouching behind him. 

Anna Petrovna, with her quick eye, recognized both Ivan and 
the man directly. 

“ I am pleased,” said she, “ to receive a faithful friend of my 
dear daughter, and sorry to see him in bad company.” 

“ Madame,” said Ivan, “ do not regard him as anything but a 
minister of justice. A greater villain than he ever was inter- 
cepted two letters that even a fiend might have spared. This 
poor knave found them afterward in Vladimir’s pocket, read 
them, and copied their contents, and placed his copies in the 
envelopes. Pray God for fortitude, dear lady, to read these 
letters, and know your enemies, since now you know your 
friends.” 

As he spoke he held out two letters. Anna Petrovna took 
them slowly. She opened one of them with a piteous cry. It 
was from Alexis, announcing his marriage but protesting love 
and duty, and asking pardon in tender and most respectful 
terms. “Our lives,” said he, “shall be given to reconcile you 
to my happiness.” 

Whilst she read, her face was so awful and so pitiful that by 
tacit consent they all retired from the room, and left her to see 
liow she had been abused. When they came back they found 
hei on her knees. She had been weeping bitterly to think that 
her son had died unforgiven because she had been deceived by a 
reptile. 


TIT FOR TAT. 




As she suffered deeply, so she acted earnestly. 

She called all her servants, and gave them a stern order. 

She dismissed the steward on the spot for complicity with 
Vladimir, and she offered Ivan the place, with rooms in the 
house. He embraced the offer at once, to be near Daria. 

Daria and she were rocking together, and Daria’s sweet voice 
was comforting her with a long prospect of love and peace, when 
grinding wheels and barking curs announced the return of Vlad- 
imir. 

Ivan left the room hastily, saying, “ Leave him to me.” 

For the first time in the memory of man the great door of that 
house did not open to a visitor. Vladimir had to knock. The 
hall re-echoed with the heavy hammer. 

Then the door opened slowly, and displayed a phalanx of serv- 
ants planted there grimly, not to receive but to obstruct. 

They forbade him, by order of Anna Petrovna, to enter, and 
were as insolent as they had been obsequious. 

He threatened violence. They prepared to retort to it. When 
he saw that, the Asiatic reappeared in him. “ May I ask for a 
reason ?” said he, very civilly. 

Ivan stepped forward. “Sir,” said he, “a dishonest serv- 
ant took two letters you intercepted. They were written at 
Petersburg after the marriage. He substituted copies, and the 
bereaved mother is weeping over the originals.” 

“ Ah!” said Vladimir, and was silent. He literally fled. His 
face was never seen again in that part of Russia. Yet he had the 
hardihood to claim the promise of a pension, and that high- 
minded woman, who could not break a promise, flung it him 
yearly through her steward, Ivan Ulitch. 

Balmy peace and love descended now on the house, and abode 
there. Alexis and Ivan grew older, but Anna Petrovna young- 
er. Her daughter’s voice and her daughter’s love were ever- 
flowing fountains of gentle joy; still, like Naomi of old, her bliss 
was in her boy. His father and he seemed blended in her heart, 
and that heart grew green again. 

Ivan is calmly happy in the present, and in the certainty that 
Daria will never marry any man but him, and in the hope that 
one day Anna Petrovna will let him marry her. At present he 
is afraid to ask her for the mother of Alexis. But Alexis is pav- 
ing the way by calling him “ my father.” It rests with Anna 
Petrovna; for if she says the word Daria will marry Ivan mere- 
ly to please a good friend, and afterward be surprised to find 
how happy he can make her. 

He has never revealed, and never will, that master-stroke of 
fraud with which he baffled fraud, and perpetuated right by 
wrong. 

He is right not to boast of it, and I hope I may not be doing 
ill to record it. The expression so many Freuch writers delight 
in, “a pious fraud,” is the most Satanic phrase I know. 

I did not invent the maneuver which is the point of this tale, 
and I pray Heaven no man may imitate it, 

[THE END.] 













s 





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